


Murder at Maidstone

by HeatherAster



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: (Probably too many characters), F/M, Jack & Phryne Reunion, Murder Mystery, Romance, lots of new characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 98,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21907468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeatherAster/pseuds/HeatherAster
Summary: UPDATED 4/18/2020:  Chapters 21-26 posted!+++It's Friday, February 14th, 1930, and Jack surprises Phryne in London six months after she's left.  Their happy reunion is interrupted by a murder or two - of course - and they are back in the crime-solving fray.  Phryne's father isn't the only ancestor in her family tree known for mischief and underhanded dealings.  The history of Maidstone Manor - and the Lords and Ladies who have inhabited it - informs our favorite detectives as they hunt down the killer.  This murder hits very close to home for Phryne, literally and figuratively, and Jack must work alone at times to solve the case.  Meanwhile, a plot is afoot to uproot the Fishers and take over Maidstone, but who really is behind it all?  Can our intrepid sleuths solve the murders and save Maidstone for future generations, all the while navigating the new phase of their relationship?
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 62
Kudos: 63
Collections: Come After Me





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I began this story within days of my very first watch-through of MFMM, in early August 2019 (Yes, I'm that new of a fan). That was before the first teaser trailer for the movie came out. I offer my sincere apologies to anyone from London and England for any errors I make in recreating that location in my story. I've done hours of research but I know I will probably make mistakes. Mea Culpa in advance. I hope you will enjoy the story anyway. (And please feel free to offer any suggestions or corrections.)

Murder at Maidstone  
Chapter 1   
++++++

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson stopped momentarily at the entrance to the ballroom of the Dukes and Lords Club in London where Scotland Yard’s Policeman’s Ball was in full swing. An unbidden twinge of nerves pricked his insides as he scanned the room with a practiced eye, reminding him how important this moment was. It didn’t take him long to spot her sleek black bob swinging as she danced the Charleston with a tall and lanky gentleman. Her ringing laughter rose above the music, tickling his ears, and a surge of memories washed over him. 

The Charleston ended and everyone around the room let out a cheer and a round of applause for the popular dance. 

“Shall we cool down with a waltz next?” asked the bandleader into a microphone. “Hear, hear!” came the reply from a few of the older guests. 

Jack decided that was his cue. He strode across the dance floor, weaving between the couples, and approached her from behind. Her dance partner noticed him from three steps away and dropped his arms, and she was about to protest. 

“May I cut in.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Jack!” Phryne whirled around at the sound of his voice, more startled than he’d ever seen her. Her wide-eyed, unguarded reaction to his appearance was all the confirmation he needed that he’d made the right decision to travel half way around the world. 

“Of course, sir,” her former partner said as he backed away. “I’ll be at the bar if you choose to look for me later,” he said to Phryne with a courteous bow of his head. Neither Jack nor Phryne heard what he’d said or saw him leave, as their eyes were locked on each other. 

“Jack, you came after me.” Phryne was still a bit breathless from the last dance, but had recovered enough to grace him with her sparkling smile. 

“Not as soon as I wanted to,” he stated, taking her hand and guiding her into the waltz position with confidence and grace. “But just in time to ensure you’ve been properly waltzed.”

“Well, then, by all means,” she replied, relaxing into the music and letting him lead. Her heart was beating a mile a minute while she attempted to maintain a formal composure, but there was no denying the fluttering in her stomach, or the tingling on her skin. 

A million questions swirled in her mind as Jack swirled her around the floor, creating a dizzying effect and rendering her speechless. His steady blue gaze held her captive, and the heat from his hands passed easily through her silk dress to her skin. Not even a breathless tango would have left her so completely overcome. 

Somewhere at the edge of her consciousness, she recognized that the other guests and dancers were watching her and Jack execute their socially acceptable intimacy. Even so, nothing would deter her from this moment with Jack. Her Jack. She swallowed back the emotion that welled in her throat when she realized just how much she’d missed him. 

“Are you all right, Miss Fisher?” he asked quietly as he turned her around. Of course he would notice. Those few simple words, in his rugged voice and Aussie accent, saying her name like always, weakened her knees and she missed a step. He stopped, firmly pulled her a little closer for support, and waited until the next bar to start dancing again. 

“I- I’m fine,” she breathed, if “fine” meant breathless and weak-kneed. Just like her mother, she was losing all reason while being waltzed, but there was no going back now. The song was coming to a close, and as it did Jack held her gaze and her body firmly for a final breathless moment that lasted a few seconds after the music ended. 

A smattering of applause bubbled around the room, and Jack relaxed his grip and bowed his head. Breaking eye contact broke the spell, and Phryne exhaled and rocked back on her heels. 

“Thank you, Jack, that was wonderful,” she said, and it truly had been. 

“Do you have any further commitments this evening, Miss Fisher? Any other promised dances?”

“Just the Chief Commissioner,” Phryne replied.

“Is anyone seeing you home?”

“No, I came alone,” she said. “Why so curious, Jack?”

“Because I have plans for the rest of our evening,” he stated plainly.

Her heartbeat quickened at his use of the word ‘our’. “I do like a man with a plan,” she said with a sly grin. Jack allowed a curl of a smile to pull at the corners of his mouth, remembering her words from their first meeting. 

“Let’s go find the Chief Commissioner, then,” Jack said, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm and leading her off the dancefloor. They found the Chief Commissioner of Scotland Yard talking with several other men in a corner near a large potted plant. All of them were wearing dress uniforms with stripes on the sleeves and medals on their chests, like every other man in the room. The gold braiding on his shoulder distinguished the Chief Commissioner from the rest. 

“Chief Commissioner Windemere,” Phryne announced as she approached the group. “I’d like you to meet someone.” The other gentlemen backed up a step and looked her up and down approvingly. Jack felt the need to glare at them. 

“Miss Fisher,” the commissioner smiled. “I would be honored to meet any friend of yours.”

“Jack, this is Chief Commissioner of Scotland Yard, Maitland Windemere.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Jack offered. 

“And this is Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, Victoria Police Force, Melbourne, Australia.”

“The pleasure is mine, Inspector,” Windemere said and the men shook hands. “You’re a long way from home. Are you here on a case?”

“Missing persons,” Jack said, placing his hand gently on the small of Phryne’s back. “Very hush-hush, though, I’m afraid.” A shiver raced up Phryne’s spine, understanding Jack’s innuendo perfectly. 

“Well, if you need any assistance from Scotland Yard, please contact me. We’ll be happy to help in any way we can.”

“Thank you Chief Commissioner.”

“Enough shop talk,” Phryne said, unsettled by Jack’s seriousness toward her. “I promised you a dance, Mait, and I would be honored to keep that promise.”

“Why certainly, Miss Fisher,” the commissioner said and offered his arm. 

“I’ll wait here,” Jack stated, locking eyes with her. 

“I’ll be right back,” she promised and flounced off to dance the Fox Trot with the Chief Commissioner. Jack accepted a glass of whiskey from a passing waiter and stood his ground to watch Phryne and scan the room. London’s version of the Policeman’s Ball was a much more formal affair than the ones held in Australia, Jack noted, and he was glad he’d brought his tuxedo. It also appeared there were only senior officers in attendance, no constables in sight. It was an exclusive party for sure, and the exact type of affair that Phryne would gravitate toward. 

The ladies were colorful, shimmering counterpoints to the men’s black uniforms, but none shimmered more than Phryne. He was accustomed to maintaining a reserved countenance around her, but after six months he was out of practice, and he hadn’t been prepared for the impact of seeing her again. His gut had turned to mush and his breath caught in his throat when she’d spun around and said his name. He had relied on his years of police training to keep his composure, and he kept his words few, focusing on the waltz and never taking his eyes off hers. So much had been communicated between them simply through a few minutes of eye contact. 

That didn’t take into account what was communicated through their touch, however. His hand on her back, her body against his, their breath mingling… he’d realized in that moment how much he’d missed her, and he became even more determined to fulfill his mission. ‘The Phryne Fisher Repatriation Project’ he was calling it. Maybe it was a fool’s errand with a woman like Phryne, but he had to try. 

She returned to him on the Commissioner’s arm, and the older man handed her off with a smile. “So glad you could come to the party, Inspector,” Windemere said. “Miss Fisher tells me you’ll be seeing her safely home now.” 

“Thank you, Chief Commissioner,” Jack replied, unsurprised that Phryne had turned his idea into her own. 

“Wonderful evening, Mait,” Phryne gushed as she gave the Chief air kisses. 

“Good night to you both,” Windemere said.

“I just need to get my wrap,” Phryne said as they headed toward the exit, stopping at the coat check. Jack draped the fur-trimmed velvet cape over her shoulders in a gentle and protective manner, then led her to the door with his hand on the small of her back. 

“Taxi, sir?” the doorman asked as they stepped outside.

“Yes, please,” Jack replied, and the doorman went to the curb to hail a cab. Phryne shivered and he asked her again if she was all right.

“Just a chill,” she said. “It’s been raining for a week. I always forget that winter in London is insufferably dreary.” There was no need to mention the shiver was her body’s reaction to having him near. 

The cab arrived, gliding under the port cochere, and Jack helped her into the back before tipping the doorman. “The Savoy,” Jack told the driver as he shut the door, and the cabbie nodded.

“Jack, how did you know where I was staying?” Phryne asked.

“I’m a detective. It’s my job to know things,” he teased with a straight face. 

“Jack,” she protested, then laughed. “So when did you arrive and how long are you staying?”

“Yesterday, and as long as it takes.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him, stymied by his insufficient answers. “As long as it takes to do what, exactly?”

“Now’s not the time for talking,” he said, and pulled her close. His kiss was insistent, sending its heat straight to her core. She melted against him and held on tight, his kiss continuing for block after block of cobbled London streets. He gently pushed her wrap off her shoulder and trailed kisses down her neck toward her collarbone. 

“Oh, Jack,” she murmured, and it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. He hoped to hear it a few more times before the sun came up. 

The cab pulled up at the Savoy Hotel behind several other cabs depositing other guests. This gave them a few moments to make themselves presentable. Jack combed back his hair with his fingers and wiped her lipstick off with his handkerchief, while Phryne straightened her dress and wrap and smoothed her hair. They gave each other knowing looks as they finally arrived at the curb. The doorman opened the cab to help her out, while Jack paid the cabbie. 

“Thank you in advance for your discretion,” he said, handing the cabbie his fare plus a generous tip.

“Didn’t see a thing,” the cabbie said, tipping his hat with a smile. 

Jack stepped out of the cab, tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and led her across the marbled lobby toward a set of sweeping stairs. Other guests in the lobby turned to watch them, but that only made Jack prouder to be with her. 

“This way,” she said when they’d reached the second floor, and she fumbled with the key as it started to sink in what was soon to happen.

“Do you need help, Miss Fisher?” Jack asked, knowing full well she could pick any lock with ease while being chased by a crazed gunman. But right now, with Jack standing close and the memory of his kiss still warm on her skin, her fingers completely forgot how to unlock a door with an actual key. She took a steadying breath and tried again, sliding the key slowly and turning it smartly, allowing the door to swing open. 

Her suite was on the front of the building, overlooking the Thames. Only a small lamp was lit on a side table, allowing the lights of the city from across the river and the sidewalk below to cast a soft glow over the entire parlor. 

“Look, Jack,” she said walking toward the large bank of windows to gaze at the city, tossing her wrap and purse on a chair and stepping out of her shoes as she went. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“In its own way, I suppose,” Jack allowed, standing close and drawing lazy circles on her back with his fingers. 

“You wouldn’t believe the adventures I’ve had,” she began, her excited voice attempting to compensate for eyes that suddenly wouldn’t meet his. If she were playing coy or hard to get, he was prepared to clear every hurdle.

“You mean, more adventures than you wrote to me every week?” he asked, sliding his hand up to the back of her neck where his fingers continued to tease her skin.

“Those were just the mysteries and murders I solved,” she said with a small shiver. “That’s not all I’ve been doing here.”

“I would love to hear more,” he said, turning her to face him. “But, as I said in the cab, now is not the time for talking.” 

“But I have so much to tell you, and so many questions to ask you,” she rambled, as he wrapped his arm behind her waist and pulled her close.

“Can it wait until morning?” he asked as he tipped her chin up, and she had no choice but to look him in the eyes. 

“Yes, I suppose it can,” she whispered. 

“I didn’t come all the way to London to chat about your exploits,” he said quietly and stroked her cheek. “I came for something much more important.”

“Sounds serious,” she replied.

“It is quite serious, Miss Fisher.” He closed the final few inches between them and kissed her again, slow and deliberate, like a proper waltz. That same dizzying feeling came over her once more, as it had on the dance floor, and she melted into him. 

Once again his lips moved down her neck, across her collar bones, and now veered dangerously close to her neckline. She slid her fingers into his hair and held on. He held her body close with one hand on her back and the other on her curving backside, the silk of her dress making her slide against him until he gasped. 

A small cry escaped her throat and he returned his lips to her mouth to capture the next one, and the next. 

“Oh, Jack. Jack,” she murmured as she clung to him. His name on her lips in the throes of passion was something he’d only imagined until now, and he decided his imagination was highly inadequate. Her hands slid under his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, and he let go of her so it could fall off his arms onto the floor. Her next target was his vest, easily dispatched, followed by his bowtie. Her nimble fingers make quick work of the knot and the top two buttons of his shirt. She spread open his collar and kissed the hollow of his neck. A bolt of lightning coursed through him and he gulped. 

“Phryne,” he breathed, brushing her cheek and neck with his fingers. It was the first time she’d heard him say her first name since before she’d left Melbourne, and electricity danced down her spine. His voice always had a deep, visceral effect on her. 

“Let’s go get comfortable, Jack,” she whispered with a gentle tug on his arm.

“Not yet,” he replied, and held her face in his palms and kissed her again. This time, his ultimate purpose for this trip rose in his mind, cooling him down enough to risk the next step. When he broke the kiss and she opened her questioning eyes, he led her to the sofa. 

“I thought you said this wasn’t the time for talking, Jack,” she said, searching his face. He didn’t say anything right away, simply holding her eyes and stroking her cheek. 

“I didn’t come all the way to London to be part of the parade, either,” he said, gently but firmly. “You know that, right?”

“I never liked that term, Jack,” she glanced down briefly, a subtle admission of her remorse, then flashed him controlled defiance with her eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t use it.”

“Whatever you want to call it, I won’t be a part of it.” His soft tone and tender touch on her arms and hands diffused her airs.

“I – I understand, but….”

“Do you? Because anything further between us can’t start until that stops.”

“Are you giving me an ultimatum, Jack?” It was not what she had expected from him, but deep in her psyche, it was what she had always wanted. It was a realization more shocking to her than his bold words. 

“It is the only thing I would ever ask of you, Phryne,” he said, his steady composure weakening slightly as he lifted the veil on his heart’s desire and he swallowed hard. “Because I cannot, will not, share.”

“Jack…”

“I want you to be everything you are,” he continued. “I want you to fly aeroplanes, to drive fast, to go on adventures, and to catch murderers. But I want you to come home to me every night.”

“Oh, Jack…”

“And I promise to make it more worth your while than any parade of dalliances.”

“A promise? Jack, what are you saying?”

“That I will let you be you, if you will be mine.”

Phryne was speechless for a moment as the import of his words resonated in her soul. 

“Is that a proposal?” she finally managed. Why did that idea scare her in all the right ways?

“Not yet. I want you think carefully, Phryne, because I am also willing to let you go – again, and for good – if you cannot give up the parade.”

“No, Jack, don’t let me go.” Dismay gripped her heart and her hands gripped his. She couldn’t lose Jack.

“It’s the last thing I would ever want to do,” he insisted. “But I believe in fidelity to ones commitments, and I won’t commit to someone who doesn’t share those beliefs.”

“But Jack,” she said, a realization formed in her mind and she sat back a bit, regaining a measure of her composure. “I am faithful in all of my commitments.” He narrowed his eyes as if he didn’t entirely believe her. “I am faithful to my parents, I’m faithful to Jane, I’m faithful to all my employees,” she asserted. “And I’m faithful to my friends, of which you are one,” she paused. “Unless something changes?” She glanced up at him through her eyelashes, her stomach churning with hope and desire. 

When he didn’t respond right away, she continued carefully. “You don’t believe I can be faithful in a committed romantic relationship because you’ve never seen me in one. But I assure you I would be more faithful to that man than the King is to Britannia.” 

He looked at her as if studying a puzzling piece of evidence. “And how would that man find himself in that esteemed position?”

“You’ve already asked me if I would be yours, Jack,” she reminded him gently.

“And your answer?”

“Ask me again,” she smiled. 

From his seat on the couch it was easy to put one knee on the floor, take her hands in his and lock eyes with her. His mouth suddenly went dry and he swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “Phryne Fisher, would you do me the honor, of being mine, and mine alone, for the rest of our lives?”

His steady gaze reached deep into her soul, knowing everything about her, yet wanting it all. She could have felt exposed, but instead she felt a freedom she’d never known in any of her kaleidoscope of experiences. Freedom in monogamy? The ultimate paradox.

“Yes, Jack Robinson, I will,” she replied with ease and a great relief washed over her. “Oh, Jack, I absolutely will!”  
+++++


	2. Chapter 2-A & 2-B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 was originally too long, and at the time of posting I already have 20 chapters, so rather than renumber everything, I've split it into 2-A and 2-B.

+++

“Ah, Phryne,” he cupped her face lightly with both hands, his insides unraveling with her affirmative response to his unconventional proposal. “You do know I love you, don’t you? I have for quite a long time.”

“Of course I do. And I love you, too, Jack,” she replied with a soft smile. “And have for quite a long time.”

“I felt as if it needed to be said out loud,” he reasoned. 

“Say it out loud as often as you’d like.” She touched his cheek and blinked hard, unable to stop a pair of tears from escaping.

“I intend to,” he promised, brushing the drops from her check and fighting back a few of his own. The cage of propriety would hold his tongue no longer; he was finally free to fully express himself with and to her, in every way he could. Starting now. “What do you say we go back to not talking again,” he asked, a sly curl to his mouth. 

“I’d like that very much,” she nodded. 

This time he held nothing back when he kissed her. There were no more uncertainties, no more social proprieties, no more of the looming disappointment that had kept him restrained in the past. Secure in their commitment, he laid it all bare before her.

He let her lead him to the bedroom where she finished what she had started with his tuxedo. She undid his braces and untucked his shirt, then slowly undid the buttons. Every move she made sent sparks racing along his nerve endings. When she slid her hands over his shoulders to push his shirt off, it was like the flames of ten candles hissing across his skin. She stroked her hands down his arms and kissed his neck, fanning the flames. 

She slowly pulled his undershirt over his head, but gasped at the sight of the long scar across his abdomen.

“Oh, Jack,” she whispered, fingering it gently.

“German bayonet,” he explained softly, covering her fingers with his hand and pressing her hand against the scar. “Only a scratch, really. I turned sideways just in time.” Their shared look expressed their shared sadness for the war and its many casualties. He leaned in and kissed her again, bringing them both back to the present, back to a life they would live to the fullest in honor of those they’d lost. 

“My turn,” he whispered after a moment, and slid his hands up her arms, and goosebumps chased after his touch. He reached up and removed the glittering headband from her hair and placed it on the nightstand. Then he turned her around and slowly unzipped her dress. Slow and deliberate, the waltz continued. 

His fingers spread across her shoulders as he slid the exquisite, embroidered, jade green silk evening gown off her body where she let it fall in a puddle at her feet. He removed her silk camisole as well and continued to caress her. He slipped his hands around to her breasts and she leaned back against his bare chest. 

“Jack,” she gasped as his hands explored her body and his lips explored her earlobe. He pressed his hips against her in a slow, methodic rhythm, and she soon found her breathing matching the hypnotic pace. 

He moved a hand to unfasten his trousers, but she turned back toward him to take care of that. Having unbuttoned and unzipped him, she hesitated for a second, thumbs tucked under his waistband. This wasn’t just anyone in her boudoir tonight: this was Jack. And this wasn’t just any encounter: this was the first of forever with the man she never knew she needed or ever dreamed she’d find. She looked up into his eyes to savor the moment.

“Are you all right, my love,” he asked, cupping her face with one hand. 

“More right than you’ll ever know,” she replied.

“I think I might,” he said tenderly, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “Now, where were we?” he asked with a quick wag of his eyebrows. Phryne grinned and pushed his trousers and drawers down past his hips, exposing his manhood. 

She gave him a long, appreciative look and when their eyes met, there was not a hint of shyness or embarrassment in his. He pulled her close and kissed her again, sliding himself against her silky drawers once more and allowing a slight groan to escape from somewhere deep. 

“Will you do me a favor?” he asked, his voice husky with desire. 

“Anything,” she breathed.

“Will you take off my shoes?” he asked.

She stopped short, then laughed and pushed him back on the bed. “I knew we’d forgotten something,” she said as she unlaced his dress shoes and tossed them aside, then removed his socks and finally slid off his trousers. 

“You’re overdressed, Miss Fisher,” he said, indicating her silk stockings and drawers. 

“We can’t have that, can we,” she winked. She performed a little dance for him as she removed her lingerie, then stepped between his knees where he was sitting on the bed. With one hand he caressed her backside, and with the other he pulled back the covers, then gave her a come hither look. He didn’t have to ask twice. 

It took hours for a year and a half of pent up emotion and desire between them to be satisfied. Jack’s virility and confidence excited her in a new way, and his attentiveness and sensitivity brought out her inner ingénue, as if this was her very first time. It was a potent blend she hadn’t expected. Jack Robinson in bed was a surprise worth waiting for. 

When sleep finally came, she curled up in the curve of his body under the fluffy down covers, feeling safer and more beautiful than she ever had in her life. She had promised to be his alone, and he had sealed it on her body and soul forever. She slept deeply, peacefully, and dreamlessly for the first time in years. 

++++

Phryne was awakened by a knock at the bedroom door.

“Miss? Miss?” came the muffled female voice of her maid. 

“Yes, Mrs. McCarthy?” she said groggily.

“There’s an urgent phone call for you.”

“I’ll be right there.” She drug herself away from Jack and wrapped her favorite black silk robe around her body. Jack was starting to wake up, too, rubbing his eyes and sitting up.

“Put on a shirt and stay for breakfast,” she said, sitting on the bed and stroking his chest.

“Where else would I go?” he smiled, and kissed her. 

She shut the bedroom door behind her and walked across the parlor to where Mrs. McCarthy was standing with the phone in one hand and Phryne’s cup of tea in the other. 

“Thank you, Mrs. M,” she nodded then turned her attention to the call. “Phryne Fisher speaking.”

“Miss Fisher, it’s Inspector Howard.”

“Oh, Good morning, Inspector.” 

“I have some awful news.”

“Oh, no, what is it?” Phryne asked, glancing across the parlor where Jack was emerging from the bedroom looking deliciously morning-after in his tux shirt with the collar unbuttoned, hair falling across his forehead, and bare feet at the end of his trousers. 

“There’s been a murder at Maidstone,” Inspector Howard said, recapturing Phryne’s attention. Jack’s attention was momentarily captured by the fresh scones Mrs. McCarthy was setting out on the small table. 

“A murder?” Phryne exclaimed. Jack’s eyebrows shot up at the word. “Tell me more?”

“The victim is nearby farmer named Loddington. Do you know him?” Inspector Howard asked. 

“I just met him last week when I was out there,” she said, waving Jack over to stand next to her. She held the phone so he could hear as well

“He was found in the woods by the groom who was hunting quail and pheasant near the rear of the property. Head bashed in, and worse.”

“That’s awful. What do you mean by ‘and worse’?” 

“Gutted with a shovel.”

“Heavens,” Phryne winced. 

“Since it was on your property, Miss, we’ll be handling the case from London, as we do all peerage cases. The body was brought to the morgue at Whitehall. And we’d like you to come down to the Yard for a chat.”

“Of course, Inspector. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Probably an hour or so.”

“We’ll see you then, Miss Fisher,” he said and hung up.

“Well, I was hoping you might take me sight-seeing today,” Jack said, faking a pout. “But it looks like those plans are dashed.”

“I see that twinkle in your eye, Jack Robinson,” Phryne said, taking a bite of scone. “You’ve been at sea for three weeks, so I know you’re itching to get back in the ring.”

“I’ll have you know, I solved a murder at sea,” Jack said around a mouthful of scone. “A cook was stabbed with a butcher knife. Turned out to be a lover’s quarrel.”

“If I can’t have you, nobody can?”

“Precisely.”

“So selfish.”

“These scones are delicious, Mrs. McCarthy,” Jack said, grabbing another.

“Oh, thank you Inspector. I’ve pressed your tuxedo jacket and vest that you left on the floor last night,” she said with a small ‘ahem’ and indicated the coat hook near the front door and Jack thanked her. 

“More tea, Miss Fisher?” Mrs. McCarthy asked. 

“I think we’ll be fine. Maybe tin up a couple scones and jam we can take with us. I have a feeling we’ll be headed out to Maidstone later.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Is Maidstone the property the Inspector mentioned?” Jack asked.

“Yes, Maidstone Manor, held by the Baron of Richmond, in County Kent, southeast of London. It was part of Father’s inheritance when all the other heirs had died in the war. My parents moved there and I joined them after I mustered out of my ambulance unit after Armistice Day.” 

“How old were you then?”

“Twenty-two. I spent a few months there, then in the spring of nineteen I started to feel confined, so I started traveling. I’d seen so much ugliness and evil that I went searching for the beautiful and kind. I didn’t always find it, but I found a lot of extraordinary things.”

“So you didn’t spend a lot of time at Maidstone, then?”

“Oh, I stopped in every few months to visit my mother and glare disapprovingly at my father.”

“Are they still acting like newlyweds, like you described in your letters?”

“Yes, and it’s insufferable,” Phryne said with a roll of her eyes. 

“I think you’re jealous,” Jack said with a sly curl to his mouth.

“Not anymore,” she eyed him over the rim of her teacup. 

“I suppose I’ll get to meet your mother today, then,” Jack surmised.

“Actually, they’ve taken a cottage in Brighton for a long weekend. They’ll be back in a couple days. Mother is definitely looking forward to meeting you,” she winked at Jack. “Anyway, we need to get going,” she said finishing her scone.

“I’d like to go round to my hotel and change,” Jack said. “I don’t intend to show up with you at Whitehall wearing my tuxedo, after half of Scotland Yard saw me leave with you last night.”

“Don’t want to make your police brethren jealous?”

“I was not thinking of myself,” he said. “I imagine London society is a lot less forgiving than Melbourne’s.”

“True, thank you,” she said, sipping her tea. “Can you believe we have a murder to solve together, Jack?”

“Looks that way.”

“Feel free to use my bathroom to freshen up while I get dressed,” she said, heading back to the bedroom.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he swigged the last of his tea and followed her into the bedroom and shut the door. He stepped behind her as she was perusing her wardrobe and placed his hands on her waist. She shivered, and he smiled into her hair. 

“I’ve always thought the best thing we did together was solve murders,” he whispered into her ear while his husky voice vibrated along her nerve endings and his hands smoothed over her silken robe. “But I think I’ve changed my mind after last night.”

“Have you, now,” she said, turning to face him, a sly grin hiding the meltdown happening in her stomach. 

“Of course, there’s always more investigating to be done before I’m certain,” he continued, gently rubbing their noses together, his lips almost touching hers.

“Are you going to kiss me?” The question came out more breathless than challenging, and she was equally amazed and appalled by how easily he swayed her. 

“I’m afraid if I do, we’ll never leave this room,” he reasoned, backing off a bit. “And we don’t want to keep your Inspector waiting.”

“He’s not my inspector, Jack,” she protested. “You are.”

“At your service, Miss Fisher,” he said, stepping back to bow for her, then gave her sly look before ducking into the bathroom. 

Phryne flapped her robe to create a breeze over her heated skin. She wasn’t used to Jack showing his cards like this, usually preferring to keep them close to his vest. It was going to take some getting used to this newly forthcoming Jack Robinson. 

She turned her attention to her wardrobe, and selected a pair of navy slacks with a patterned blouse and sensible shoes, in case they ended up traipsing around the back woods of Maidstone. 

“I need a turn in front of the mirror when you’re done,” she called to Jack. 

“It’s all yours,” he said, coming out of the bathroom. He’d washed his face and combed back his hair, his shirt was buttoned and tucked, and his bowtie in place. “I’ll wait out in the parlor,” he said, leaving her alone. 

When he shut the door behind him, a sudden cold and empty spot formed in the pit of her stomach. She dressed quickly, touched up her hair and makeup, and spritzed her favorite French perfume. She selected a dark red hat and a matching coat, and a red and blue plaid scarf. She took her revolver out of the desk drawer, checked to see that it was fully loaded, and tucked it into a leather shoulder bag which she slung across her body. 

When she walked out into the parlor, she found Jack chatting with Mrs. McCarthy, and her valet, Mr. McCarthy. “I see you three are getting cozy,” she said, the cold spot filling with warmth at the sight of Jack. 

“It’s so nice to finally meet the famous ‘Detective Inspector Jack Robinson’,” Mrs. McCarthy cooed. “She talks about you all the time,” she whispered loudly to Jack. 

“Shh, Mary, you’ll embarrass the Inspector,” James McCarthy gently shushed his wife. 

“Here’s your tin of scones,” Mrs. McCarthy handed the tin to Phryne who tucked it into her bag. 

“Thank you, Mrs. M, Mr. M. We’d better get going now, Jack.”

“Good luck with the murder,” James said. “I know you’ll solve it, Miss.”

“You have quite the fan club there,” Jack said as they walked down the hall and the stairs.

“Mr. Butler served with James McCarthy in the war and recommended them. As a couple, they make a great team.”

“Sounds like another couple I know,” Jack said with a sideways look and a curl of his mouth.

“Gee, I wonder who,” Phryne smiled. The doorman hailed them a cab, and Jack gave the cabbie the name of a moderately priced hotel near the theater district. 

“Why not join me at the Savoy, Jack,” Phryne offered. 

“One step at a time, Miss Fisher,” he cautioned, but squeezed her hand. He made her wait in the cab while he dashed inside to change. In under ten minutes he reappeared in his usual garb of suit and tie, trench coat and fedora, and she let out a small gasp. This was Jack as she always pictured him. 

“Scotland Yard at Whitehall,” Jack said as he got back in the cab.

“Aye, gov’nuh,” the cockney cabbie replied. 

Phryne reached up and ran her finger along the edge of Jack’s hat brim and sighed. 

“Everything all right, Miss Fisher?” he asked softly. 

“Perfect,” she replied quietly and they shared a long look. 

“So tell me about this Inspector… Howard is it?” Jack asked after a few minutes. “What’s he like?”

“Detective Inspector Chauncey Howard,” Phryne said, switching to crime-solving mode. “Wants everyone to call him ‘Chance’ so he can feel more rugged and manly, but nobody does. Self-consciousness aside, he’s a good policeman and is rising through the ranks.”

“That’s high praise coming from you.”

“Don’t worry, he’s got nothing on you. It doesn’t take nearly as much effort to improve your career with Scotland Yard these days.”

“Lots of galahs, eh?’

“Mostly inexperience. They lost a lot of men in the war. Many of the constables are still so young and were only boys when their fathers went off to fight. London is a much bigger city now, with more people and more crime, so they’re stretched a little thin.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean they bungle cases.”

“Why do you think Chauncey accepts my help all the time?”

“I wonder how he’ll feel that you’ve brought your own personal police detective along with you this time.”

“Don’t get cocky,” she grinned, although she secretly enjoyed it when he did. 

+++

+++

Chapter 2-B  
+++

The cab pulled up to the main entrance of the police station, and Phryne made a beeline for the reception desk. 

“We’re here to see Lieutenant Inspector Howard. He’s expecting us.”

“Put these on,” said a tired civilian woman behind the desk, handing her a pair of badges proclaiming them ‘visitors’. “Simmons will escort you upstairs.”

“Good morning, Miss Fisher,” said a young constable next to the desk.

“Good morning, Hank,” Phryne smiled, and introduced him to Jack. 

“Blimey, I didn’t know Australia had right proper detective inspectors,” Hank gushed, looking Jack up and down. 

“I didn’t know ‘blimey’ was a right proper way to greet a visitor,” Jack said in an authoritative tone. “Are they teaching that at the academy here now?”

“Oh, no sir,” Simmons gushed and stood at attention. “I’m sorry, sir. Welcome to Scotland Yard, sir.”

“Don’t take it personally, Hank,” Phryne said, noting the slight teasing tone in Jack’s voice. “Inspector Robinson is used to a more formal atmosphere at Melbourne’s City South Station. Now, please take us to Inspector Howard’s office. We’re already a few minutes late.”

“Right this way,” Simmons said, and Phryne and Jack fell in behind him. They shared a conspiratorial look over the way they’d played good cop/bad cop with Simmons, and Jack felt a tingle of adrenaline from being back on the case with Phryne, their partnership picking right up where it had left off. 

“All guests are escorted around the building while they’re here,” Phryne whispered to him. “They had an issue with people just wandering in, interrupting police work, tampering with evidence, and the like.”

“Sounds like I should have implemented that back in Melbourne a long time ago,” he teased with a curl of his mouth. “What were you saying about formal atmospheres?”

They arrived at Inspector Howard’s office where he was just finishing up a phone call. Simmons knocked on the door frame and announced, “Miss Fisher is here to see you, sir,” then closed the office door on his way out. 

“Chauncey,” Phryne greeted him, “I’d like you to meet my friend, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, Victoria Police Force, Melbourne.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Inspector. Miss Fisher has told me so much about you,” Inspector Howard said, shaking hands with Jack. “Call me Chance.”

“Pleasure to meet you, too, Inspector Howard,” Jack said, and Phryne cleared her throat to stifle a giggle. Jack was in very good humor today, and knowing why had her biting the insides of her lips together to keep from smiling. 

“Please have a seat,” he said, and Jack and Phryne settled into a pair of wooden armchairs that looked just like the pair in Jack’s office. He surmised they must be standard issue to all police departments in the British Empire. 

“Jack is going to be assisting me with my investigation,” Phryne said, earning surprised looks from both men. 

“Miss Fisher,” Howard began, “I’m not sure Chief Windemere would approve of an Australian detective working a case in London.”

“First of all, since this happened on my land, I’m hiring myself as a private detective to look into the matter. Second of all, Inspector Robinson is not here as a policeman; I’ve hired him as my assistant.”

Jack slid his eyes sideways toward her and she caught them with a raised eyebrow of her own. His surprise easily morphed into aiding and abetting her machinations. “Assistant,” he said over steepled fingers, and it was truer than he cared to acknowledge. There had been times when she’d run so far ahead on one of his own cases he could barely keep up. He had learned, however, that amazing things happened when they used their separate skills in tandem, rather than at odds, and he loved every minute of it. 

“Well, then,” Howard gathered himself and pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. “How well did you know the deceased?”

“Really, Chauncey,” Phryne intoned. “Are you questioning me?”

“It happened on your property, Miss Fisher. You know I have to ask you.”

“Fine. As I said, I only met him just last week when I was out at Maidstone. He had brought over a cart of fruit to sell to the cook. He seemed to be a grumpy sort of person, but his pears and cherries were divine.”

“Any other contact with him?”

“None whatsoever. What was his full name?”

“Reginald Loddington. Goes by Loddy. Forty years old, fruit farmer, one time regional darts champion, and regular at a local pub called the Fox Den.”

“Sounds like a fun place to gather some clues,” Phryne said. 

“Loddington,” Jack mused. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Do you know someone with the family name Loddington?” Phryne asked.

“I can’t put my finger on it, but it’ll come to me eventually. Go on, Inspector.”

“Loddy is also known around those parts as a bit of an annoyance and just a touch mad,” Howard added, reading off the report. 

“How so?”

“Something about his claim to being an heir to great land holdings in that area, and they say he goes about gawking at headstones or some such. It says here the neighbors called him the ‘Baron of Cherry Tree Park’.” 

“Was he mentally… unwell?” Phryne chose her words carefully.

“No, just odd.”

“Well, it’s a sad story, nonetheless,” Phryne stated. 

“Quite. Whoever wielded the shovel did a nasty number on him. We don’t have the photographs developed yet, but you may not want to see them. Preliminary reports state the back of his head was bashed in pretty bad by the back side of the shovel, so he was caught unawares. Then he was laid on his back, his coat and shirt were ripped open, and the business end of the shovel was used to dig out his chest cavity. His heart was found next to his head. From the amount of blood sprayed all over the ground and the bushes nearby, it seems the blow to the head didn’t kill him.” Both Jack and Phryne winced at the description. “We’ll have the full autopsy available in a day or two.”

“And he was killed last night?” Jack asked. 

“We think it happened sometime after midnight. He was seen at the Fox Den until about eleven when his buddies carted him home after a night of drinking and brawling. He was found about six am by Miss Fisher’s groom who was out hunting quail. The blood wasn’t fresh, but it wasn’t completely dry either.”

“What was he doing on my property?” Phryne wondered. 

“That we don’t know yet. But we did find the murder weapon in the bushes. Just a typical garden shovel, though honed to serious sharpness, and bearing the initials AF carved in the handle. We picked up another local named Artie Floyd, who is warming a bench in a cell in Aylesford. He’s had numerous disagreements with Mr. Loddington over the years, usually over darts and sometimes over borrowed tools. They got into it again last night, and both were taken home separately. But no telling what a couple blokes will get up to when they’re drunk.”

“Seems a stretch to pin that brutal of a murder on simply being drunk,” Jack commented.

“And that’s where you two come in,” Howard said, then turned to Phryne. 

“Miss Fisher,” Chauncey’s tone became apologetic. “For the record, where were you last night?”

“Oh heavens, Chauncey.”

“Just tell him, Miss Fisher,” Jack said quietly. 

“I was at the Scotland Yard Policeman’s ball from about eight until nine-thirty,” she stated. “Which reminds me, I didn’t see you there, Chauncey.”

“Someone has to hold down the fort on the overnight shift,” Howard replied. “And last night, that was me. My shift was just about over when I got the call about the murder.” Phryne and Jack nodded in sympathy, realizing Inspector Howard had been up all night without a break. 

“So did you go straight home after you left the ball, Miss Fisher?” Howard asked, the weariness beginning to show in his strained voice. 

“Yes. Inspector Robinson escorted me safely back to my suites at the Savoy.”

“And you stayed there all night?” Howard asked.

“Of course I did,” Phryne said. 

“I made sure of it,” Jack added, drawing an invisible line in the sand. Howard looked back and forth between Jack and Phryne as realization sunk in. 

“Of course,” Howard said, jotting it down, then rubbing his eyes. “I’m going to need another cuppa if I’m going to stay awake much longer. 

“Would a trip to the morgue wake you up?” Phryne asked. Howard made a brief phone call to confirm that they could see the body. 

“Miss Fisher, could I speak with you a moment in private?” Howard asked. 

“Of course,” she said. “Jack won’t mind waiting outside for a moment, will you, Jack?”

“Not at all, Miss Fisher,” Jack said, giving her a look. He shut the door and looked around the large office, and a thought came to him. He needed to make a phone call, too.

“Is there anywhere around here I might be able to hire a car for the day?” Jack asked a young constable, interrupting his typing.

“Yes, sir,” the constable said, handing him a telephone directory. “There’s Standish’s just down the street, and Heath Branch’s just over the bridge on the other side of the river.”

“What about a phone?”

“You can use that one,” the young man pointed to a phone on the wall.

“Thank you, Constable.” Jack glanced back at Phryne, deep in conversation with Inspector Howard behind Howard’s closed office door and wondered what that was about. Then he looked up the first name and made the call. 

“I would like to hire a car for the day,” Jack said. “Good. Do you have a lot to choose from? ... Do you happen to have an Hispano-Suiza? … You do? May I reserve it?” Jack gave the man his name and told him he’d be there within the hour. 

“Ready for the morgue, Jack?” Phryne asked cheerfully as she exited Inspector Howard’s office with Howard following in her wake.

“My favorite place,” he said, smiling to see her in full murder-case mode. 

“Follow me,” Howard said, leading them toward the stairs. They walked down to the lobby, then down a long hall, through a breezeway, and into another building. Another flight of stairs took them down to the main coroner’s facility.

“Looks like he’s in Bay 3,” Howard said, glancing down at the folder he’d brought with him. They walked down the hall a little further, and Phryne and Jack both noticed there were more than three bays in the morgue, and most of them looked quite busy. They stopped at Bay 3 and Howard let them in. After a few brief words with the medical assistant, the body was wheeled out. 

“I really don’t recommend you look at this,” Howard said as Phryne reached for the corner of the sheet. 

“I’m no shrinking violet,” she stated, and folded the sheet back just to the man’s shoulders. “Yes, that is the man I met at Maidstone last week,” she nodded. She felt for the man’s arm and pulled it out from under the side of the sheet to check his hands, fingers, and arms. Jack did the same on the other side. Both noted the rough hands and callouses common for a farmer, nothing unusual there. 

“What’s this,” Phryne asked, noting black smudges on Loddington’s left thumb and first two fingers. 

“Charcoal? Jack asked.

“Maybe ink,” Phryne guessed. “Which would make him left handed.”

“Look at this,” Jack said, holding the victim’s right forearm so Phryne could see. 

“A tattoo. What an interesting symbol.”

“It’s a mill-rind,” the medical assistant said. “Normally a heraldic symbol for…” he referred to the clipboard. “For industry.” 

“Not a symbol I’ve ever seen,” Phryne commented. “And if you’re going to tattoo part of your family crest to your body, a lion or an eagle would seem more common.”

“That’s quite true, Miss,” the assistant said. “We do see a lot of lions and eagles.”

“So a mill-rind must mean something more specific.”

“May I?” Jack said, his hand out toward the assistant. The younger man handed Jack the clip board and Jack flipped through the pages. “What about the black eye?” Jack asked.

“Apparently from the fight he was in at the Fox Den, last night.” Howard remarked. 

“And the dirt in his mouth and nose?”

“Most likely from when he was hit with the shovel and fell face forward to the ground.”

“We’re still working on the stomach contents and the toxicology report,” the assistant said.

“Have that information, and the full report, on my desk as soon as possible,” Howard instructed.

“Yes, sir – Miss!” the assistant had turned to see Phryne pulling back the sheet to expose the fatal injuries. A square-shaped hole in the man’s chest, roughly executed and almost as large as a dinner plate, gaped at her and bile rose in the back of her throat. She closed her eyes and fought for control, then looked at Jack for strength. He gave her a steadying look, then re-covered the body gently. Even Howard had turned pale.

“I think we’re done here for now, Chauncey,” Phryne said, regaining her composure, and the three of them walked out into the hall. She clung to Jack’s arm for a moment for support.

“Are you all right, Miss Fisher?” Howard asked. 

“I’m fine now,” she asserted, shoving back old memories of her field nurse days.

“Here’s your copy of everything I have so far,” Howard said, handing her the folder. “I’ll give you more whenever I get it.”

“You don’t happen to have a note pad I could borrow, do you?” Jack asked. 

“Sure, we can pick one up on the way out.” Howard led them back to the reception desk where they checked in. Phryne turned in their Visitor badges while Howard pulled a small note book and a pencil from one of the reception desk drawers and handed them to Jack. “We keep plenty of them around,” he explained. 

“I’ve hired a car for the day from Standish’s,” Jack explained, tucking the notebook away. “Is it far from here?”

“No, just three or four blocks to the left,” Howard pointed in the general direction. Jack and Phryne said their goodbyes and stepped out into the crisp winter sun. 

“Fancy a walk, Miss Fisher?” Jack said, extending his arm for her. 

“At least the rain stopped,” she commented and tucked her hand into his elbow. 

“My hunch is we scared it away last night,” he said.

“If that’s all it took, I would have insisted you visit me sooner,” she replied. “And honestly, we just left the morgue, and you’re thinking about that?”

“I’m going to be thinking about it for a very long time. Or at least until tonight, when I’ll have something new to think about.”

“We do have a murder to solve, you know. Can you spare some brain cells for that?”

“I suppose. So what do you think about Mr. Loddington’s death?”

“Just awful, isn’t it?” she shuddered. “The murderer must have had a lot of anger in him to be so violent.”

“And killing someone face-to-face like that usually means it was personal.”

“So you think the murderer knew him but hated him.”

“It’s a reasonable hypothesis for now.” 

They arrived at Standish’s Motorcar Dealership and Jack introduced himself to the proprietor. 

“Ah, yes, Mr. Robinson. John Standish at your service. Your car is ready out back.” He led them around to the lot out back where a youth in overalls was polishing the fender. 

“Billy, bring the keys,” Standish called to the boy, who hustled over with them. 

“Mr. Robinson,” Standish gave a little bow of the head as he handed Jack the keys, and Phryne let go of his arm to skip over to the vehicle. 

“Jack! You got a Hispano!” she called with delight, and walked around the car to inspect it.

“Thank you, Standish,” Jack signed the rental agreement, paid the two pound fee, and shook hands with the dealer. 

“You’re very welcome,” Standish said. “Have fun, and bring it back by five or I’ll have to charge an additional day.”

“Let’s go ahead and plan for two,” Jack said, handing Standish another two pounds. “Care to drive, Miss Fisher?” Jack asked, walking over and dangling the keys for her.

“I think I’d better let you drive, Jack,” she said. “They’re still a little old fashioned here about women drivers, and I would like to not get a ticket.”

“Since when has the threat of a ticket ever deterred you?” Jack replied, opening the passenger door for her, then climbing in on the other side.

“If I drive, I can’t read Chauncey’s report,” she stated, ignoring his friendly taunt as he started up the car and pulled out of the lot.

Jack gave her a look but she was studiously avoiding his gaze. “This one’s a newer model than yours,” he said, continuing his attempt to get a rise out of her. “I think it might have a little more zip.”

“There’s a lot of open road between here and Maidstone, Jack. It wouldn’t bother me if you felt the urge to test that theory.” She raised her eyebrows at him but remained unflappable.

“As much as I hate to disappoint you, Miss Fisher, I plan to stick to the speed limit,” he said.

“Of course you do,” she said, reaching over to pat him on the knee. “And looking damn fine while doing it.” Jack’s mouth turned up at the corner, never upset to be bested by her in their verbal sparring. 

“I did take your car out a few times, like you suggested,” he said. 

“Any fun adventures?” 

“Took Hugh and Mr. Butler out to Tarrawarra for a weekend of fly-fishing. Bert and Cec came in the cab, so it was a quite a good time with the lads. Took Hugh, Dot and your Aunt Prudence to Geelong for a shopping excursion around Christmas. Even used it on a few stakeouts.”

“Stakeouts, that sounds exciting.”

“Sadly, they weren’t. But your car did come in handy several times.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Oh, and you’re going to have to tell me where we’re going or we’ll end up in Scotland.”

“Turn left here!” Phryne exclaimed at the last minute and Jack went hard on the wheel. 

“A little more notice for the rest of the trip would be preferable,” he said. She helped him find his way out of the city and onto the road to Kent. 

“Follow the signs for Kent, and when you start seeing signs for Rochester, let me know,” she said, then pulled out the folder Chauncey had given her.

“Reginald Loddington,” she read. “Did you figure out how you know the name?”

“Not yet. Keep reading and maybe I’ll think of it.”

“Age 40, fruit farmer originally from Aylesford, Kent. Known by ‘Loddy’, drinks and brawls at the Fox Den regularly.”

“That’s nothing new. What about next of kin?”

“A daughter, Felicity Belmont Loddington, twenty years old, lives in London.”

“Has she been notified?”

“It says she was called at the British Museum and a message was left. No note as to whether they spoke to her. Hmm… I suppose she works at the Museum since they called her during the day.”

“Does it say what her profession is?”

“No…” Phryne said flipping pages. “There’s really not a lot more here, Jack, other than the description of the crime scene.” 

“Read it all, Miss Fisher,” Jack said, and Phryne continued, knowing it would help Jack’s policeman’s mind to hear the words of another policeman. She read out loud the gory details described by the constable who had dutifully jotted down everything and decided that poor constable and the one who had to transcribe it both deserved a medal of commendation for working their way through it. She fanned herself with the folder when she was through, the image of Loddington’s chest still fresh in her mind.

“Are you all right, my love,” Jack asked, taking her hand across the front seat.

“I will be in a moment,” she said. “Sometimes my mind goes back to the medical tents…,” she trailed off, and Jack gave her hand a squeeze, knowing. 

He let her sit in silence as long as she needed to, the rolling winter countryside passing in shades of tweedy brown. He had his own harsh memories of the war, ones he’d surely like to forget, but couldn’t. Mates lost in brutal ways, young men cut down before their prime, the images and experiences had changed him. Rosie couldn’t understand and it had led to their divorce. Maybe that was one of the reasons he and Phryne had developed such a strong connection; they understood each other’s demons without having to say so. 

She had laid down across the seat, rested her head in his lap, and dozed off. He hated to wake her but he needed directions. “Phryne,” he patted her shoulder gently. “Phryne, wake up, my love.” She opened her sleepy eyes and looked up at him.

“Are we there yet?”

“I’ve seen the signs for Rochester you told me to look for,” he said. She sat up and directed him from there. 

“I called the house when I was in Chauncey’s office to let them know we’d be there. They’ll have a late lunch prepared.”

“Just what were you two talking about in Chauncey’s office?” he asked. 

“Just some personal business,” she said.

“What kind of personal business?”

“He asks me to shop for gifts for his wife,” Phryne explained. “I put them on hold, and he goes and picks them up.”

“What kinds of gifts?”

“Lingerie, usually. Oh, don’t give me that look,” she scoffed. “Chauncey Howard is one of the most dutiful married men I’ve ever met. My considerable charms had no effect on him. But, when I realized I didn’t need them in order to be a part of the investigations because he really needed my help, it was the least I could do to help him stay married. And Annabelle is just lovely.”

“Is that what you used to do to me? Wear scandalous clothing and bat those eyelashes at me to wear me down so I’d let you help?”

“Maybe at first. Then when I discovered what a tough nut you were, even after you started letting me help, I did it just to rattle your cage. Eventually, I did it because I believed you wanted me to.”

“I did. In fact, I used to secretly look forward to all your scandalous surprises.”

“And now?”

“Maybe I’ll have a few surprises for you.”

“I must say, showing up at the ball last night and sweeping me off my feet in front of the entire senior constabulary of Scotland Yard was a quite the surprise. Scandalous, even.”

“Not bad for a boy from North Richmond.”

“You were very impressive. Oh, Jack!” she exclaimed. “Turn left here!” 

“Why?” Jack said, managing to slow down and turn the car without tipping over. 

“This is the road to Aylesford. We can stop and interview Artie Floyd at the gaol.”

++++


	3. Chapter 3

“Good afternoon, Constable,” Phryne said when they arrived at the Aylesford police station, and quickly introduced herself and Jack. “I was wondering if we might visit with one of your prisoners, a Mr. Floyd.”

“Yes, Inspector Howard called ahead for you. I’m Constable Barnaby. The cells are this way.”

“We prefer an interview room, Constable,” Jack instructed.

“He’s an alleged murderer, sir. Committed a grisly one, too, if I heard right. He’s too dangerous to be in an interview room with a lady.”

“Constable, the last correct thing you said was ‘alleged’,” Jack corrected the young man. “And while I appreciate your concern for Miss Fisher, we’ll be fine.”

“Yes, sir,” the constable said, directing Jack and Phryne to an interview room and then going to collect the prisoner. 

“Let me take the lead on the questioning until we get a sense of this bloke,” Jack said, and to his surprise, Phryne nodded. They removed their coats and hats and took their usual places – Phryne on a chair across the table from where the interviewee would sit, and Jack leaning against the wall a few feet away. Artie Floyd was brought, disheveled, scared and smelling like stale beer.

“You’re excused, Constable,” Jack said, and Barnaby shuffled out. 

“Hello, Artie,” Jack said kindly. He’d taken stock of Artie right away, and his hunch was that this was not the man who had killed Loddington. But hunches don’t solve murders, and being harsh with Artie wasn’t going to help either. “How are you doing?”

“About as good as any bloke can be sitting a cell with a hangover,” Artie replied, rubbing his face. “Who are you two, sir, ma’am? If you don’t mind me askin’.”

“My name is Jack Robinson and this is my associate, Miss Phryne Fisher. We’re looking into Mr. Loddington’s death on behalf of Scotland Yard. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I didn’t do it,” Artie said, looking down and sniffing. His eyes were puffy from recent crying, and he seemed on the verge to start again. “Loddy was my friend. I could never hurt him.”

“Witnesses say you two were brawling last night at the Fox Den, and that it’s a regular thing between you two,” Jack said, starting to take out his notebook and pencil but changed his mind after he saw Phryne was already jotting notes in the inside cover of the case file. 

“Yeah, we argued and roughed each other up, but it wasn’t because we didn’t like each other,” Artie sniffed again. “That’s just the way things were between us.”

“So tell us what happened last night, then,” Jack said.

“I met up with Loddy and the rest of the lads at the Fox Den like usual. We had a few beers, threw some darts, got a bit sloshed, started arguing about something stupid and just went at it. I remember a couple of the lads dragging me home, but I don’t remember much else after the first punch. Next thing I know, the Yard is banging on my door and draggin’ me out of bed and here I am.”

“So you never saw Loddy again after you left the pub?”

“No.”

“Anything strange or unusual happen?”

“Yeah, it did,” Artie seemed to brighten as his memory returned. “Right as I was walking in, I saw Loddy arguing in the back of the pub by the kitchen door with some guy I didn’t recognize. Had his collar up, had a scarf around his face up to his nose, hat pulled down, like he didn’t want anyone to recognize him.”

“What kind of hat?” Phryne asked. “Fedora, bowler, beret?”

“A bowler. He dressed like he was from the city.”

“How long did they continue arguing?” Jack asked.

“Not long. He shoved Artie and then buggered out the side door. Didn’t see him at all after that.”

“Could you hear what they were arguing about?”

“Nah, cuz some of the lads were singing Anacreon to wake the dead.”

“I’d be tempted kill someone over that,” Phryne remarked. 

“A garden shovel with your initials was found at the scene, and is believed to be the murder weapon.” Jack said. “What do you know about that?”

“Loddy and I swap tools on the regular. He’d had my shovel so long I was going to buy a new one this week,” Loddy said. 

“Do you put your initials on all your tools?”

“Aye, and Loddy did, too.”

“How long have you known Loddy?” Phryne asked, taking advantage of Jack’s pause. 

“Since primary school, Miss. When I was eight, we moved to Broughton and Loddy lived in Linton, and we went to the little primary school at the church right there next to Maidstone Manor.” 

“Do you live here in Aylesford, now?”

“No, I rent a cottage down the road in Coxheath, and Loddy lives on the other side of Maidstone Manor. That’s where his orchard is. The Fox Den is closer to Loddy’s place.”

“How do you typically get to and from the Fox Den?” Jack asked.

“I drive, but sometimes the lads have to take me home.”

“Like last night.”

“Yeah, but my car wasn’t in the drive when the coppers dragged me out this morning. I guess it must still be at the pub.”

Phryne jotted down the description and license plate number and Jack promised to return it to Artie’s driveway if they found it. A loud rumble came from Artie’s stomach and he winced. 

“Hungry, Artie?” Phryne asked.

“Famished, Miss.”

Phryne dug in her bag for the tin of scones and handed them over to him. “Eat as many as you like.” Artie dug in and Jack cracked the door to ask Constable Barnaby to bring a glass of water.

“These are delicious, Miss,” Artie said around a mouthful of scone.

“I’m glad you like them. Now, tell us about Loddy, what was he like?” Phryne asked. 

“He was a good friend,” Artie sighed. “He didn’t like people knowing how much he cared, but he gave me some money to help pay for some doctor bills for my wife some years back. Didn’t call it a loan, just a gift, and swore me to secrecy. He’d drive me places when my car broke down. He’d come over and help me fix things on my house like the roof or the pipes. He had to do a lot for himself when he was young. His mum died when he was ten, and his dad was killed on the farm about ten years later. He had an older half-brother, but he died in the war, so Loddy had nobody. He was rough on the outside, suspicious of folks he didn’t know, and had a temper, but he was a really good bloke.”

“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt him or kill him?” Jack asked.

“No, no one. He never hurt anyone else, kept to himself, wasn’t a busybody.”

“What about the man you saw him arguing with at the pub?”

“Loddy argued with lots of people. That was his way of talking to you.”

“What did he like to do when he wasn’t working on his farm?”

“Research,” Artie said with a conspiratorial nod.

“What kind of research?” 

“He would go to the local cemeteries in the evenings or really early mornings and study the headstones. Sometimes I’d go with him to hold the lantern. He’d write down names and dates in a little notebook or on scraps of paper he’d bring with him.”

“What did he do with that information?”

“He’d go back to his house and copy everything into a big book he was making.”

“Did he say what the book was for?”

“He would go on about the land he was supposed to own like some peer of the realm, and how they were going to pay. He was right keen on getting his land back, as he called it.”

“What land and who is they?”

“He would never tell me either of those things. I know people thought he was bonkers, but I never thought so.”

“Why not?”

“Because he was such a decent bloke. Most crazy people are mean or selfish.”

“An astute observation,” Phryne commented.

“Any changes in his routine or anything of that nature?” Jack asked.

“Before Christmas, he started selling fruit to a posh restaurant in London. He said when he was done delivering to them, he’d go to the General Registry Office to do more research. Even I thought he’d gone off the deep end a bit with that. I didn’t know what he was looking for, and he wouldn’t tell me. Started being real secretive with his notes then.”

“Do you know what this book looked like that he was using?”

“It was a big book,” Artie said, using his hands to show the size. “It had a green leather cover, and light green pages with lines up and down.”

“A ledger,” Phryne said.

“He had about half of it filled.”

“Where did he keep it?”

“He had different hiding places for it. There was a loose floorboard near the hearth under the kindling box, and there was a false back to one of the cabinets near the sink. Those were the two I saw, but there were probably more.”

“Tell us about his daughter, Felicity Belmont Loddington,” Phryne said, reading the name from the police report. “Did you know her?”

“She goes by Lisa Belmont, now. She got to go to University for free, and Loddy was really proud of her, but she doesn’t talk to him much. Stays in London, even for holidays.”

“What did she study at university?”

“History or something. She got to go to the Pyramids and dig in the tunnels.”

“Archeology?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, that’s it. Loddy was real chuffed about that. When she started working at the museum, he wanted her to help him with his research because she could get to some papers he wanted to see, but she wouldn’t do it. She’s a tough one, like her dad.”

“Artie, you have been most helpful,” Phryne said. 

“When do I get to go home? My wife, Enid, is still sick and she needs help around the house.”

“We’ll check in on your wife and see she has what she needs,” Phryne said.

“I doubt you’ll be in here much longer, Artie,” Jack encouraged him. “The evidence they’re holding you on is largely circumstantial.”

“I hope you’re right, Mr. Robinson.”

“And I’m very sorry for the loss of your friend,” Jack said with a brotherly pat on Artie’s shoulder. 

“I still can’t believe he’s gone,” Artie said, staring off into space, a fresh tear sliding down his cheek. Jack called in Constable Barnaby to take Artie back to the cell. 

“He didn’t do it,” Phryne said as they walked out to the car.

“I agree, but our list of likely suspects has not improved,” Jack offered as he opened the door for Phryne.

“We need to find the man Loddy was arguing with, and we definitely need to talk to his daughter.”

“Finding Loddy’s ledger book would certainly shed some light on things,” Jack added.

“And I’m sure the General Records Office can tell us what documents he was researching.”

“And I suspect there will be a gathering at the Fox Den tonight for Loddy’s friends to drown their sorrows over his death.”

“Excellent opportunity to gather clues,” Phryne’s eyes sparkled at the notion. “Great thinking, Jack.”

“Here’s another great thought,” he offered. “Didn’t you say something earlier about lunch?”

“Take a left here and then a right on London Road,” she instructed. “One would think you had a hollow leg, Jack Robinson.”

“You depleted all my resources last night, Miss Fisher,” he explained. “I need to resupply for tonight.” Phryne gave him a look, then threw her head back and laughed. 

+++

Jack pulled the Hispano up to the front of Maidstone House on the gravel circle, per Phryne’s instructions, and tapped the horn. The huge home impressed him with its balanced Georgian style rendered in native white stone block and sporting ionic columns at the entryway. An older man in a mourning suit stepped out to greet them as they exited the car.

“Hello, Smythe,” Phryne greeted him and introduced her parents’ butler to Jack. 

“Lunch is served in the conservatory, Miss,” Smythe announced and they followed him through the main hall to a room on the other side of the house with floor-to-ceiling windows. Jack was even more impressed by the exquisite view. The land sloped away from the house with tiered formal gardens close in, and parklike groupings of trees spread across the acreage. Jack imagined the beauty of the estate in full summer green would be breathtaking. 

The garden theme of the conservatory was lush with tropical plants and a tinkling fountain, bringing the outdoors inside, even in the dreary winter months. They were seated at a glass-topped cast iron table with cushioned cast iron chairs that Jack found surprisingly comfortable. Smythe brought out a fifth of champagne and poured them each a glass. 

“Are we celebrating, Miss Fisher?” Jack asked.

“I am,” she smiled knowingly at him.

“Then make a toast.”

“To romantic overtures, murder mysteries, and leopards changing their spots,” she said.

“Hear, hear,” he replied and the crystal made a lovely ringing sound when they tapped glasses. 

A moment later, Smythe and Prissy, the house maid, brought in the first courses: a fruit cocktail and a vegetable soup. A plate of Jack’s favorite sandwiches – ham and cheese with mustard and pickles – was included and he smiled. 

“Miss Fisher, you remembered.”

“I remember a lot of things, Jack. That’s what makes me a good detective.”

“Do you still remember how to fan dance?” Jack asked matter-of-factly. “I think I’d like an encore performance later tonight.” He tried not to laugh when she almost choked on her food in surprise. 

“Jack!” she exclaimed in a hushed voice and looked toward each of the doors to see if any of the servants were lurking. “You should be careful with comments like that in a room where voices carry so easily,” she whispered. He just looked at her with a small upturn of his mouth. Then she laughed and the sound echoed across the tiled floor. “But yes, I do remember and you will get your encore,” she grinned. 

The main course was served, a broiled fish with creamy lemon-butter sauce, and carrots and grilled potatoes on the side. “Do you think Loddy’s research got him into trouble? What if something he found made someone angry?” Phryne asked, turning the conversation back to their case.

“You think there’s something to his notion that he’s actually the heir to great land holdings?”

“It’s not entirely impossible,” Phryne said. “Remember, my father inherited the land and the title when it was presumed all the direct heirs had died in the war. My Uncle Eugene is living proof that mistakes are made.”

“Your Uncle Eugene was a deserter who wouldn’t have gotten his land and title back even if he had come forward. He would have faced a firing squad.”

“At least that would have been honorable, instead of extorting money from my father and killing all those people,” she said. “Either way, there’s the possibility that Loddy is right.”

“It’s definitely worth looking into. What land do you think he was talking about?”

“If the Loddingtons are from Kent, it could be any number of estates in the area. Or it could be anywhere in England.”

“But Artie said Loddy was studying local headstones and that they both grew up in this area,” Jack recalled. “In your experience, do people like Loddy and Artie and their families move around the country, or do their families tend to stay in the same place for generations?”

“Jack,” Phryne said, eyes widening with realization. “What if he’s talking about Maidstone?”

+++


	4. Chapter 4

“It very well could be Maidstone that Loddington was talking about,” Jack said. 

“You had already guessed it, didn’t you,” Phryne said. Jack simply gave her a little shrug and half a grin. 

“You would have figured it out eventually,” he said. 

“Well, it’s still only a hypothesis at this point, but, a very good one.”

“We’ll have to find Loddy’s Ledger to be sure.”

“Let’s hope whoever killed him didn’t take it,” she said. “Let’s finish up so we can head over to Chez Loddington and look for it.”

“I think I’d like to see the murder scene first,” Jack said. “Since we’re already here. The report said that Loddington’s house is secured for now, so I’m not worried about anyone beating us to it.”

“What do you say we ride instead of walk,” Phryne suggested. “The horses need to be exercised anyway.”

“Will there be foxes and hounds, too?” Jack teased. 

“We can play fox and hound later tonight,” Phryne whispered, suggestively wiping the corner of her mouth with her napkin. 

“Foxes and fan dancing,” Jack said. “It’s going to be a busy night.” Phryne’s eyebrows shot up as she realized she’d promised quite a lot for one day, but her pride wouldn’t let her protest. 

“We’ll just have to start earlier,” she stated.

“Fine by me,” he replied with a steady gaze, and Phryne’s stomach flopped over. 

Jack suggested they interview the household staff before they went outside, to see what any of them knew of Loddy or if they’d seen anything unusual in the last few days. They talked with Smythe, Prissy, and Mrs. Nettles, the cook, but didn’t learn anything new, other than the staff only knew Loddy because of his fruit cart. From there, they headed for the stables. 

“Hello, Gordy,” Phryne greeted the groom at the stable door. “I’d like you to meet my associate, Jack Robinson. Jack, our groom, Gordon Farthing.”

“Inspector,” Gordon said, shaking Jack’s hand. “Miss Fisher has told us all about you.”

“Has she now?” Jack said with a sideways look at Phryne. He’d heard that several times already in the last forty-eight hours since he’d been in England. 

“Always going on about what a great detective you are and all the cases you two have solved together,” Gordy continued, pouring it on thick.

“Gordy, we’d like to take out a couple horses,” Phryne interrupted, and Jack wondered if the pink in her cheeks was only from the chilly air. “Do you have two ready?”

“Of course, Miss,” Gordy said. “Your horse Versailles is always ready. And how about Marquis for the Inspector?” 

“Perfect,” she said. “Are those extra boots and heavy riding coats still hanging in the tack room?”

“Yes, Miss. I’ll bring the horses ‘round and saddle them up for you,” Gordy said and trotted into the barn.

Phryne led Jack into a closed off area of the barn that had once been a stall but was now used for tack and other supplies. “This should fit you,” she said, taking a heavy shearling coat off a hook against the wall. “It’s Father’s but he won’t mind.”

Jack shrugged out of his overcoat and suit jacket while Phryne watched to ensure the coat fit. He slid his arms in and was instantly warmed by the fluffy wool lining. She took a slow step closer and fingered the open edges of the coat.

“That looks very good on you,” she cooed and looked up at him through her lashes in full flirt mode. 

“Not as good as you do,” he said, putting his hands on her waist and pulling her closer. 

“Jack,” she hissed, looking toward the door. “Not here – ” He quieted her objection with a kiss. ‘Here’ was a perfect place. He kissed her until she leaned into him, then gently pulled back, leaving her on the edge of breathless and weak-kneed. 

“I should have my way with you right now, Jack Robinson,” she challenged, trying to maintain the upper hand, but failing. He had slayed her with one delicious, well-timed, bluff-calling kiss. The promise of more later had been made with the first sweep of his tongue between her lips, and her nerve endings buzzed with the possiblity. She’d known for a long time that she’d met her intellectual match in Jack Robinson, but she hadn’t been expecting him to best her on the field of seduction. 

“It’ll have to wait, Miss Fisher,” he said with mock indifference. “We have a crime scene to investigate.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, understanding his game play for now, then set it all aside and turned back to the coat rack. 

“Do you want a pair of boots?” she asked indicating a row of tall riding boots against the wall under the coats. “There are a couple pairs, maybe one would fit you?” Jack looked over the selection and chose a pair of tall leather Army officer’s boots in his size, then sat down on a wooden stool to put them on, tucking in his trousers. 

It was obvious which coat belonged to Phryne. She took down a rich brown coat with a black shearling lining and gold accent stitching on the seams. Her riding boots looked as if they’d only been worn a few times, and were the same rich brown as her coat. She tucked her pants into her boots and Jack helped her on with her coat. 

“Don’t forget your bag with that file in it,” Jack said, handing her the leather bag. “We’ll need to compare their notes to what we find.”

“Oh, right,” Phryne sighed, as if reminded of something unpleasant.

“Are you all right, my love?” Jack asked, gently tipping up her chin with his knuckle.

“I can’t get those images out of my mind,” she admitted. “The description, the body…,” she trailed off. 

He folded her into his arms. “Some cases are harder than others,” he said.

“I’m so glad you’re here for this one,” she said. 

“It is my pleasure, Miss Fisher,” he smiled and kissed her forehead, seduction replaced with intimacy and concern.

“All right,” she said gathering her faculties. “Let’s go meet your horse.”

Gordy had just finished buckling Marquis’ saddle when they walked out. “Jack, let me formally introduce you to Marquis,” she said, leading him over to a large, black steed tied up to a railing. Marquis snorted when Jack held out the back of his hand for the horse to sniff. 

“Now Marquis,” Phryne chided. “Jack is a good man and you will be on your best behavior for him. He’s a policeman, too, so you should be honored to have him astride.” Marquis neighed softly at Phryne’s instructions. 

“Hoo, boy. There now,” Jack cooed, stroking the horse’s neck. “Aren’t you a handsome bloke, eh?” Marquis tossed his head back and shook it, as if acknowledging Jack’s compliment. 

“I think you two will get along just fine,” Phryne smiled, walking over to greet her own horse who stamped and whinnied with delight to see her mistress. “Gordy, where did you find Mr. Loddington this morning?” she asked as she stroked Versailles’ neck and withers.

“Out by the woods on the left,” Gordy pointed out toward the back of the property. “On the back side there’s a path that leads to the creek. I was going after a pheasant that ducked into the underbrush and Loddy was no more than twenty yards down the path on the right.”

“Thank you, Gordy. Are you going to be all right, after what you saw?”

“I’ll be fine, Miss. My dad’s a butcher, so I had an advantage over that poor constable who had to write everything down.” Phryne patted him on the arm, then turned to her horse.

“Need a leg up, Miss Fisher?” Jack asked.

“Really, Jack,” Phryne said as she eased herself up and onto her horse. “Why would you think that I would?”

“I didn’t,” Jack said, seating himself on Marquis just as easily. “But I thought it polite to at least ask.”

“Horseback suits you, Jack,” Phryne said, eyeing him as they walked their mounts out of the paddock. 

“My unit on the Western front used horses for scouting and reconnaissance.”

“You were a scout?”

“For a time. Until my squad surprised a squad of German scouts and I ended up with the bayonet wound.”

“Oh,” she murmured, remembering his scar from the night before and mentally filling in the details of the hand-to-hand combat that must have preceded it. 

“It was four-on-four. We lost one man, they lost two,” Jack continued. “They decided to retreat while they could. We had to ride three hours back to camp over difficult terrain, but the medics were still able to patch me up.”

“I didn’t realize you’d been that close to the Front,” she said. 

“We’ve never really talked about either of our experiences.”

“No,” she shook her head. 

“We don’t ever have to again if that’s what you wish,” he said softly, reaching out to take her hand. She steered her horse a little closer to his and let him fold her hand into his. 

“Maybe someday,” she said quietly. He squeezed her hand and nodded. 

“Let’s solve a murder then, shall we?” he smiled, and she was cheered. 

“Race you around the pond, first,” she said, pointing to a small body of water several hundred yards away glinting weakly in the winter sun, and flashing him a brilliant smile.

“You’re on,” he said.

“Left side of the pond, take a right around the back, then straight to that tall tree on the right,” she clarified.

“Got it.”

“On three, then,” she said, and he nodded and pushed his hat down tight over his brow. They lined up their horses and leaned forward for a gallop.

“One… two…” Phryne counted.

“Tally Ho!” Jack shouted a second early, giving Marquis a solid kick and off they went. 

“Och!” Phryne exclaimed and kicked Versailles into high gear. Jack had gotten a good head start, but she knew Versailles was the faster horse. She caught up to him about halfway to the pond and started to edge past him, but Jack clicked his tongue and Marquis shot forward and cut her off as they turned right behind the pond. 

The horses’ hooves dug for traction in the tight turn, throwing up clods of turf as they went. Coming around the pond and heading straight for the tree, Phryne pulled up neck-and-neck with Jack. A low hedgerow presented a minor obstacle and Phryne quickly turned Versailles toward an opening in the hedge that only she knew about. Jack, however, was focused on the tree straight ahead, and with another click of his tongue, Marquis leapt and glided smoothly over the hedge. With only a hundred yards left, he checked over his shoulder for Phryne, who was gaining on him. Marquis was tiring and Jack didn’t know him well enough to push him. He kept a steady pace, only nudging Marquis when Phryne and Versailles came even with them. At the last minute, Jack took a tug on the reins and Phryne sailed past them at the finish line. 

Windblown and laughing, Phryne circled Versailles around until she was trotting next to Jack and Marquis.

“I beat you!” she declared. But Jack could only smile to see her lighthearted after seeing the heavy emotional toll the murder was taking on her. He knew she was strong, and had seen her battle other demons, but something about her wartime service had come to the surface with this case and he hoped they could solve it soon so she could put it behind her. 

She led the way to where a spring bubbled out of some rocks into the pond to let the horses drink the fresh water. They dismounted and she took a collapsible metal cup out of her pocket and bent to fill it with spring water.

“No secret flask in your boot?” Jack teased gently when she handed him the cup.

“Not today. But I keep this handy contraption in my coat pocket for when I ride. The spring water is delicious.”

“So it is,” he handed her back the cup and she bent to refill it. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked her with concern, taking her empty hand in his.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem to be struggling with this case. You’ve mentioned the medical tents twice.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him.

“Would you tell me if you weren’t?”

“Of course,” she replied but didn’t look him in the eye. 

“Phryne,” he pressed. “Will you tell me if you’re not?”

“I said I’ll be fine.” Her tone was even, but Jack didn’t quite believe her.

“Promise you’ll tell me if it becomes too much for you,” he reached up and stroked her cheek. “You know you can talk to me about anything.” She sighed and leaned into his palm. 

“I will, Jack,” she nodded, looking into his eyes and stepping close to him. “I promise.”

“I’m always happy to remind you not to be afraid of shadows,” he said with a soft smile.

“Apparently I still need it,” she agreed. “Thank you.”

He pulled her against him and whispered into her ear. “I love you, Phryne.”

“I love you, too, Jack.” His protective embrace spoke to her soul. So many times, Jack Robinson was there for her. The least she could do in return was allow him to be. “We can talk tonight,” she said. “I need to finally tell someone.”

“Tonight,” he nodded. “Will that be before or after the fan dancing?”

“You’re awful,” she laughed. “Now give me a proper kiss so we can go look at that crime scene.”

“With pleasure,” he said and kissed her deeply. 

They remounted their horses and Phryne led the way to the woods where the body was found. They tied their horses to a tree and walked to where the path entered the woods. The police had left some small red flags to mark the path, and it was evident they’d trampled over most of everything. 

“And I was worried about you disrupting my crime scenes,” Jack said, shaking his head at the mess. 

“I learned a lot by watching you, actually,” Phryne said, treading carefully along the path, looking down and all around for any sorts of clues that might still be left. 

“Hand me the folder,” Jack said and she dug it out of her bag for him. He scanned over the description of the scene and then looked around. There wasn’t much to see at first glance other than various ground-covering plants, fallen leaves, low bushes and trees, and a large matted-down area with a large circle of blood seeping into the ground at the center. He stood still and looked down at the place where the body had been, imagining the scene in his head. He was aware that Phryne was taking a wider circumference, looking for clues in the ferns and brambles, and studiously avoiding looking at the spot where the murder had taken place. 

One of the things Jack did in a case like this was imagine himself striking the fatal blows. As much as he despised the process, it helped him develop an idea of the crime in three dimensions – where the murderer would have had to stand, where blood would have splattered, and where clues might have been left. He determined that the murderer may have stood with one foot on either side of the body to swing the shovel to create the wound he’d seen in the morgue. 

Looking around, he realized that the woods would have been in complete darkness at the time, so the murderer must have had a light of some sort in order to see what he was doing. It was most likely a lantern, since he couldn’t have held a flashlight and used the shovel at the same time. 

“Didn’t Artie say he would hold the lantern for Loddy when they’d go skulking around the cemeteries?” he asked Phryne.

“He did, why?”

“Someone had a lantern out here last night,” he said, bending down to pick up something from among the leaves and holding it up for her.

“A lantern knob! Great find, Jack!”

“Has blood on it, too.” He reached in his pocket for a small wax evidence envelope. “I wonder where we’ll find the lantern that’s missing its knob.”

“If we find it at Loddy’s, that means the murderer went back to his house, possibly to hunt for the ledger.”

“But if he noticed the knob was missing, he may have taken the lantern with him somewhere else to reduce suspicion. And it would have had a significant amount of blood on it, also.”

“Look at this,” she said, bending down a few yards down the path in the other direction and plucking a piece of dark fabric off a bramble. Jack walked over with another evidence envelope and squatted next to her. “This is a fine wool gabardine,” she said turning the small scrap in her gloved fingers. “And the height of where I found it indicates it must have come from a pair of pants. Our murderer was not a farmer,” she surmised.

“That definitely rules out Artie,” Jack said.

“My bet is the man Artie saw arguing with Loddy in the back of the pub. Artie said he dressed like he was from the city. This is definitely city fabric.”

“Hopefully we’ll learn more when we visit the Fox Den tonight,” Jack said, standing up. “Where does this path go in the other direction?”

“Well, there’s a creek a little ways off, then it breaks out of the woods near the road.”

“Which way to do you think Loddy and the murderer came into the woods? From that direction, or the way we came?”

“Hard to tell,” she said. “Maybe there will be more clues along the path.”

“Should we get the horses?”

“Oh, yes, let’s do that,” she said, standing and turning. She cut a corner in the path and caught her toe on something low to the ground and fell forward.

“Phryne!” Jack called, rushing to help her. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said, brushing herself off. “What did I trip over?” They turned back and pulled at the ferns to uncover a smooth piece of granite. 

“A headstone,” Phryne breathed. “Jack, I never knew this was here,” she said, digging at the leaves and dirt to uncover more of the stone. Jack helped her and soon they had uncovered about six more inches of the stone. It wasn’t large, about two feet across and three inches thick, but the name across the top was easy to read after Phryne scraped the dirt out of the carvings with a stick. 

“Liddell,” she said.

“That’s it!” Jack declared. “The name I remembered wasn’t Loddington, it was Liddell!”  
+++


	5. Chapter 5

“Xander Liddell was a British sergeant who was in charge of one of the huge mess tents at a rear base outside Paris near the end of the war,” Jack explained to Phryne. “Thousands of Allied troops mustered through there after Germany’s last offensive in 1918.”

“How did you become acquainted with him?”

“Had a run-in with him one day after breakfast. One of my men, Private Woodin, decided he didn’t like the toast, and made a scene. Liddell came over to the table and challenged him. Everyone had so much bottled up from what they’d been through, that fights broke out frequently over insignificant things, like toast,” Jack shook his head. 

“I tried to talk him down, but they just kept yelling at each other. We went out the back, so as not to disturb the rest of the troops in the tent, but Liddell wouldn’t calm down. He was overworked from feeding so many troops all day, and took a poke at Woodin. Took three of us to break them up. I made Woodin apologize to him later that day, but Liddell looked like he was ready to hit him again. Fortunately, we mustered out of there the next day.”

“I wonder if that Liddell was any relation to our victim. Liddell and Loddington are similar, as you’ve already shown.”

“Are there any other headstones around here?” Jack asked. “Is this a family cemetery?”

“I’d never heard of one on the property,” she said. “I did explore the place when I was living here after the war, but never went off the path.” They shuffled through the underbrush, moving their feet side to side to feel for other stones. 

“Found one!” Phryne said.

“Me, too,” Jack said. They knelt and dug at the two stones and found two more Liddells. 

“Jack, over here!” Phryne said from behind a tree. He came to stand beside her and there was a full headstone, laid almost flat by the growth of the tree from its base. They knelt to uncover the stone, clearing away the vines, underbrush and leaf litter that had collected over the years.

“Liddell, William, Baron of Aylesford, died eighteen-aught-one,” Phryne read. “Jack, I wonder if your Sargent Liddell was a descendent of these Liddells.”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t explain why there’s a Liddell family cemetery on your property, and why Loddy was killed right in the middle of it.”

“Maybe Loddy was showing it to whoever killed him,” Phryne wondered.

“In the middle of the night?” 

“What better time to kill someone?”

Jack furrowed his eyebrows. “Interesting non sequitur,” he commented. Phryne didn’t reply, but went back to the other headstones to see if she could find any more names or dates, but they were too deeply buried. 

“I suppose this is why they brought a shovel, too,” she said after a several minutes of digging with her gloved hands. “These stones are deep.” 

“But why kill Loddy before digging up the stones?” Jack looked up from jotting notes. 

“Maybe Loddy told the murderer what he wanted to know, so the murderer figured he’d come back later to look at the stones. He probably didn’t expect the body to be discovered so quickly out here in the woods.”

“I’ll talk to Inspector Howard about putting a watch on this location to see if the murderer comes back,” Jack offered. They collected their horses and rode down the path through the woods, over the creek and out the other side. 

“Careful, Phryne,” Jack said firmly as Phryne’s horse sought purchase off the path in the soft, sloping ground near the creek. “Get back on the trail.”

“What is it, Jack,” she said, moving Versailles back to the dirt path.

“That’s poison hemlock,” he said, pointing to the tall brown stalks growing along the edge of the creek, their seed heads dry and bent over, but the shape of the leaves and the purple splotches on the stems were unmistakable.

“Oh,” she said, looking back at it. “Definitely want to stay away from that.” Jack let her take the lead as they moved away from the creek. 

The path continued along the inside of a five-foot tall wooden post-and-rail fence before sweeping back to the left and toward the house. The fence was older and erected on the outside of an ancient stone wall. There were at least ten narrow rails between each post, preventing entry, and the entire length of the fence was covered in vines and brambles, blocking the view. 

“This section of fence is broken,” Jack said, noticing the displaced railings just inside the woods a few feet from the path. About half of the top rails were removed from a post and angled down to allow easier access. “And the vegetation is trampled down between the path and the opening.”

“This must be where they came in,” Phryne surmised. “There are no gates on the fence at all along this side.” Jack dismounted and pulled a few more of the rails out, then led Marquis through the opening and onto the road and remounted. Phryne nudged Versailles to follow. 

“Look,” Jack pointed up the road just a few dozen yards. The other side of the road was lined with small trees and more vines and brambles, but at a break in the vegetation was a driveway with a rope stretched across. A sign with an official-looking coat of arms on it hung from the rope. 

“Is that Loddington’s house?” Phryne asked. 

“It’s the only one I can see that’s secured by Scotland Yard,” Jack said, looking up and down the road. “And Artie said Loddy lived on the other side of Maidstone Manor.”

“Wait, don’t go trotting off yet,” she said, looking down at the road. “What are those dark stains on the macadam?” Jack dismounted again and squatted to look. 

“Blood, mixed with dirt,” he said wiping some off the road and sniffing it. “The murderer would have wiped most of the blood off his shoes from walking through the woods, but not all of it.” He stood up and looked around at the ground. “There’s more leading to the house,” he pointed. “But they get fainter.” He looked up at Phryne. “Can I get back on my horse now?”

“Hurry up,” she said, faking impatience. 

It only took a few minutes to trot down the road to the roped-off driveway. A pair of young constables was sitting in a police car just inside the rope, playing cards. 

“Which one of you is in charge here?” Jack asked, using his Inspector voice. The young men scrambled out of the car and stood at attention. 

“I am, sir,” said the one with the stripes on his sleeves. “I’m Constable Morton and this is Constable Bailey.”

“Inspector Howard at Whitehall sent us to investigate the Loddington murder. Can we come through?”

“Inspector Robinson and Miss Fisher?” Morton asked.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Inspector Howard sent word you might be coming around today,” Morton explained, moving the rope so the horses could enter. “He said to give you free access to the entire property.”

“Thank you, Constable,” Jack said as he and Phryne dismounted. “Were you part of the detachment that worked the murder scene this morning?”

“I wasn’t, but Bailey was.”

“It was brutal, sir, miss,” Bailey said. 

“Were you the one that had to write the report?” Phryne asked.

“No, thank goodness, but I heard the constable that did retched his guts out three times before he could finish it,” Bailey explained. 

“Thank you for that colorful but unnecessary editorial comment,” Jack said. “Is the door locked?”

“No, sir,” the chastened constable replied. Jack and Phryne led their horses down the drive to the front of the house and tied them up to a porch railing. The cottage was old and in need of repairs, but the roof was in good shape and the porch posts and door frame were sturdy. Orchards surrounded the structure on all sides, and a few low-slung farm sheds could be seen out among the rows of trees. 

The main room consisted of living area and kitchen with a large hearth. A bedroom was on the other side of the fireplace wall, and a small bathroom was off the kitchen. Tools were hanging on every wall, and a rifle was hanging over the mantle. 

“Why use a shovel when there’s a gun?” Phryne asked. 

“Ah, a Lee-Enfield Carbine Mark I,” Jack commented. “Standard issue to British troops during the Second Boer War. But that one is merely for display now. The firing mechanism is missing. I’m surprised you didn’t notice that, Miss Fisher.”

“I was thinking about whether or not our murderer had a gun of some sort, but decided to use the shovel so as not to leave any traceable bullets behind.”

“That would make him as smart as he is ruthless,” Jack said, beginning to rifle through Loddy’s desk. “Where did Artie say Loddy hid his ledger?”

“Under a floorboard near the kindling box and in a false back of a cabinet near the sink,” Phryne recalled. 

“You look in those places, and I’ll see what else I can find, although his papers seem to have been searched already.”

Phryne tapped the floorboards around the kindling box until one made a hollow sound. She moved the box and felt around for the loose section. A small notch allowed her to tuck her finger in and lift the board out. The space beneath was large enough for a ledger, but it was empty.

“Nothing there,” she said, replacing the board and the kindling box and moving to the cabinets. She opened each one and tapped the back walls until she heard another hollow sound. Using a fork, she pulled at the wooden panel until it fell forward and revealed a notch in the stone wall behind it. Again, empty. She checked all the other cabinets, up and down, in case there was more than one hiding spot, but still found nothing. 

“Where else could a ledger hide,” she mused, hands on hips, looking around. “Jack, where did you go?”

“Not far,” he said from the bedroom. Phryne followed the sound of his voice and found Jack sitting in a wooden chair by the window, looking through some papers. “It appears that Mr. Loddington was quite thorough in his research. This may not be the ledger, but there are a lot of notes here, just like Artie Floyd said.” He pointed to a small leather valise sitting on the bed, overflowing with small notebooks, scraps of paper, maps and all manner of ephemera.

“Where did you find this?”

“Under a floorboard on the other side of the bed,” he said. Phryne walked around to see a large section of floorboard removed from under a night stand. 

“I wonder if the Ledger is in this room, too,” she said, heading for the kindling box. This time, when she found the notch in the wood and pulled up the board, she was rewarded with a canvas bag. “Jack, look!” She lifted the bag out, and it clearly contained a book. She loosened the drawstring and pulled out a large green leather ledger book.

“Excellent find, Miss Fisher,” Jack said, forgetting about the notes in his hands and standing up to look over her shoulder at the ledger. 

“Jack, there’s so much here,” she said, flipping through pages and pages of hand-written documentation. “And Loddy certainly had a very nice hand.”

“I noticed that too when I was reading through his notes. Very fine penmanship, for a farmer.”

“And a leftie, if those really are ink smudges on his left index finger and thumb. Mr. Loddington was seemingly well-educated when he was learning to write,” she mused as she continued to turn pages. “Look, there are some pages missing,” she said, pointing to where several pages had been cut out close to the binding. 

“Of course they are,” Jack said wryly. “When do we ever find the smoking gun where it’s supposed to be?”

“So did our murderer take them? Or did Loddy take them out himself? And if the murderer took them, why not take the whole book? Why take a few pages and put the book back?”

“Well, I suppose we can figure out what’s missing if we compare the ledger to the box of notes,” Jack offered. 

“Considering the quantity, that could take a while,” Phryne sighed. “Where’s Dot when I need her?”

“Enjoying married life,” Jack answered. 

“Are they?” Phryne asked. “Are she and Hugh getting along well?”

“If the smile on Constable Collins’ face every morning is any indication, I’d say quite well.”

“I’m so glad. Dot writes to me regularly, and she’s said nothing but good things, but it’s always good to hear from an impartial third party.”

“Who says I’m impartial?” Jack smiled. “The happier Collins is, the easier my job is.”

“Then kudos to Dot,” Phryne said, raising an invisible glass for a toast. 

They poked around a bit more, looking in cabinets and cupboards and drawers, but not finding anything else of significance, nor any traces of a bloody lantern. They collected the ledger and the valise of notes and headed back outside. 

“Did you see any blood in the house, footprints, anything?” Phryne asked.

“No, you?”

“No. I suppose that means our murderer drove off and didn’t go in.”

“What do you want to do about the contents of the valise?”

“I suppose I can ask Mr. and Mrs. McCarthy to go through it all for us,” she said. “They’ve done some similar jobs for me before.”

“Why not take it to Whitehall and have one of the young constables do it?”

“Whitehall is too big and too busy,” she said, tucking the ledger into her leather shoulder bag and mounting Versailles. “I’d be afraid something would get lost. Plus, the information is of no use to the police until we know what is missing anyway.”

“I don’t trust them either,” Jack said with a knowing look at Phryne. He found a section of rope on the front porch and wrapped it tightly around the valise, then tied the valise to Marquis’ saddle. The ease and familiarity with which he handled the saddle, along with their little race earlier, spoke volumes to Phryne about his experience with horses and she savored this new knowledge about him.

“What are you smiling about?” he asked after swinging up onto Marquis and coming to stand next to her. 

“Oh, I’m just happy we found what we were looking for,” she said. “Mostly, anyway.” But Jack wasn’t fully convinced that was the only reason for her smile. 

They walked past the constables at the end of the driveway, and Morton hopped out of the vehicle to move the rope for them again. 

“Thank you, Constable,” Jack said. “Will you be relieved soon? How long will the house be under watch?”

“Two more constables are coming to relieve us at dinner. Inspector Howard wants the house under watch until it can be bolted and secured properly. Likely a couple more days.”

“Keep up the good work then,” Jack said.

“Aye, sir.”

They went back across the road the way they came, nudging their horses through the opening in the fence and resetting as many of the rails as possible. They followed the path to the right, away from the crime scene, and out into the open to head back toward the house. Jack moved Marquis close to Versailles and reached for Phryne’s hand. She smiled at him and he smiled back, but no words were exchanged. The horses seemed to know the way, so they rode along in companionable silence. 

Jack turned the evidence over in his mind. They had means and opportunity, and they were closing in on a motive, but they were no closer to figuring out who the murderer was. Who would want to kill Loddington over Maidstone? Who would think Loddington had a viable claim to Maidstone? Who would ultimately want Maidstone and why? There had to be more going on. 

They arrived back at the stables and were greeted by Gordy who was more than happy to have horses to groom for the rest of the day. They changed back into their regular shoes and coats in the barn, and Phryne clung gently to Jack’s upper arm as they walked back to the house.

Facing the back of the house as they walked, Jack was even more impressed with this façade than the front. A large pediment presided over the central door, a stone railing ran along a third floor terrace, more columns marched along the walls between the windows, and a slate-tiled patio extended from one end to the other. The terraced gardens were both English and Italian, with fountains and sculptures and symmetrical plantings. It was obvious that this was the side to be enjoyed, away from any prying eyes that might find their way to the front drive. Maidstone Manor would be quite an acquisition for anyone.

“Where would you like refreshments served, Miss?” asked Smythe as he met them at the door with large glasses of cold spring water. 

“The garden room would be lovely, Smythe,” Phryne said, swigging down her water in one long draught. Jack didn’t finish his right away, but it sure felt good going down. 

“Yes, Miss,” Smythe nodded and took Phryne’s glass from her. She led Jack to a small room facing the gardens, with more tall windows, but decorated with plush chaises and thick carpet in creamy yellows and greens. 

Phryne yanked off her shoulder bag with the ledger in it and dropped it on a chair, along with her hat and coat, then went straight for a small but ornate cupboard and took out a crystal decanter.

“Whiskey, Jack?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, setting the small valise down next to her bag, adding his coat and hat to the pile with hers, and meeting her at the cupboard where she handed him a glass. She poured herself a glass as well, and brought it and the decanter to a small table between pair of overstuffed chairs that shared an ottoman and faced the windows. 

Phryne sunk into the chair, took a sip of whiskey and sighed, resting her head against the back of the chair. “I need a kip,” she said.

“I’ll drink to that,” Jack said, seating himself and taking a swig.

“I didn’t know how long you were staying, Miss,” said Prissy, bringing in some sandwiches and small sweet cakes. “So I freshened up your room for you if you plan to lie down before dinner.”

“Thank you, Prissy,” Phryne said. 

“I can open a guest room for Inspector Robinson, as well,” she offered. 

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Phryne replied. 

“Yes, Miss,” Prissy curtsied, collected their hats and coats, and left the room. 

“How do you know I don’t want my own room?” Jack asked with a teasing tone, then devoured one of the small sandwiches in a single bite. 

“I think I’d be too tired to argue with you about it right now,” Phryne said.

“What time is dinner?” he asked looking at his watch and downing another sandwich.

“Six-thirty.”

“We have two hours.”

Phryne smiled, her eyes still closed. “Are you sure that’s enough time?” she teased, taking another sip of whiskey.

“Clock is ticking, Miss Fisher,” he said. She sat up straight and looked at him.

“Very well, then Inspector. Follow me.” She carried their glasses and the decanter while Jack collected the valise and her bag with the ledger and followed her to the back stairs. The door to her suite was slightly ajar, and she pushed it open with her foot. She led him across the sitting area and through a door on the right that revealed her private bedroom. Jack set the evidence down on a chair, shut the door, and turned the key in the lock. 

Phryne was already kicking off her shoes, and he did the same, removing his suit coat and vest as well, then pulled her to him and kissed her. She sighed and clung to him, her body responding to his with a quickening shot of adrenaline. He undressed her slowly, kissing each area of bare skin as he exposed it, reveling in her sighs and gentle moans. He picked her up and laid her gently on the bed, and her languid stretch reminded him of the painting of her he’d helped her recover not long after they’d first met, on the night when he’d first kissed her, knowing he would never be the same after that, even if he’d tried to tell himself it was all in the line of duty.

She watched him undress, smiling back at him and wondering what he was thinking. Emotions passed in his eyes, giving her a glimpse of his closely guarded feelings. She chided herself for not choosing to commit to him as soon as she could have, as soon as his divorce had been final, but they were together now, and he was climbing into bed with her and making confident love to her, making her more his own each time. 

Blessed sleep came over them, taking them away from murders and crime scenes and memories, even if only for an hour.  
+++


	6. Chapter 6

“Dinner was delicious,” Jack said to Prissy as she cleared the dishes. “Please pass on my compliments to Mrs. Nettles.”

“Yes, sir,” Prissy curtsied. “Dessert will be out in a moment.”

Phryne was quietly contemplating the theories about someone trying to acquire Maidstone that Jack had laid out for her over dinner. The thought of someone trying to do that hadn’t even occurred to her, and it was a bit of a shock. 

“My father has fallen off the wagon and gotten himself mixed up in more shady dealings again, I’m sure of it,” she mused darkly. 

“I think blaming your father is the easy thing for you to do,” Jack said. “But the dates on the headstones that Loddington was researching go much farther back. And Baron Fisher is not even in town this weekend, so he couldn’t have killed Loddy.”

“I thought he was on that ship, too,” she reminded him. “He could have come back to Maidstone last night and returned to Brighton before sunrise. Or hired someone to do it for him.”

“Phryne,” Jack took her hand. “We have no evidence against your father at all. Let’s wait until we collect more evidence before you consign your father to the gallows.”

“You’re right, Jack,” she sighed. “I don’t know why I’m so out of sorts about this case.”

“There are several elements that are hitting close to home,” he said. “But I’m confident it will all be sorted out and everything will be back to normal.” He squeezed her hand and smiled, and she nodded and smiled back. 

“Dessert is served,” Prissy said, bringing in two servings of warm apple pie, each with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. “Apple pie a la mode.”

“Wait until you try this, Jack.” Phryne said with a spark of delight returning to her eyes. “Mrs. Nettles has figured out how to make ice cream here in our kitchen, and her apple pie is divine. The combination is out of this world.”

“Mmmm…” Jack said around a mouthful. “This is incredibly good.”

“It’s all the rage at Delmonico’s in New York City, and Father wanted to have it here,” Phryne explained. “The ice cream cart doesn’t come out in the wintertime, but that’s when the apples are the best, so he promised Mrs. Nettles a week’s pay as bonus if she could make ice cream here.”

“So this delicious idea was your father’s?” Jack asked, eyebrow raised.

“Even a broken clock is right once in a while,” she said with a dismissive wave of her fork. 

Jack made several more complimentary remarks about the dessert while making it disappear within moments, scraping the dish to collect the last bits, then leaning back with a satisfied sigh.

“I would ask for seconds, but we have work to do tonight,” he said. “The Fox Den awaits.”

“Tally ho,” Phryne said with a wry smile. They thanked the staff again, collected their coats and hats, and headed out to the Hispano. 

“Do you know where we’re going?” she asked him as he started the car. 

“I got directions from Smythe while you were freshening up before dinner,” he said. “I hope Artie’s car is there.”

“Oh, we promised to check in on his wife,” Phryne remembered. 

“We can go by after we drop in at the pub. I don’t expect we’ll be there for too long,” Jack reasoned. 

They arrived at the Fox Den shortly thereafter, and the lot was already filling up with cars. Loud singing greeted them as they walked in, and about two dozen men were raising glasses and delivering a rendition of “Danny Boy” that would have made a true Irishman cringe. 

“I see the wake has already started,” Jack commented. 

“Look,” Phryne pointed to the kitchen hallway, directly across from the entrance. “Let’s start there.” They wove between a few tables and entered the hallway and looked around. 

“Men’s room is right here, too,” Jack said. “I wonder if anyone happened to be in there and heard the argument. Same with anyone in the kitchen.”

“Look, Jack!” Phryne said, bending down and plucking a small piece of paper from behind the leg of a bench and shone a small torch light on it. “This is Loddy’s handwriting,” she said. “Lawrence O. D. Liddell, 4 May, eighteen-fifty.”

“Birth or death?” Jack asked. 

“It doesn’t say,” Phryne turned the card over. “Nigel Bolsover,” she read with surprise. “Jack, Nigel’s father is a partner in the financial firm that handles all my father’s investments, including Maidstone!” 

“Hastings, Basset, Partridge & Bolsover, Fiduciary Partners, Limited,” Jack read. “60 Threadneedle Street, London.”

“I just knew my father was –” she began but Jack stopped her with a finger to her lips. 

“Stop right there, Miss Fisher,” he said firmly. “This is just one clue. No jumping to conclusions.”

“You’re right, Jack,” she nodded. “Thank you.” He gave her a questioning look and she nodded again, indicating she was all right, then handed Jack the card. “Better if you keep this,” she said, and he tucked it into his suit coat pocket. 

Jack turned to look into the kitchen. There was a set of swinging doors about shoulder height, and he knocked loudly to be heard over the din of cooking from the back and carousing from the front.

“Aye! Who’s knockin’? Just come in!” called a man who was elbow deep in a sink of dishes. 

“We don’t mean to interrupt,” Phryne said, leading with a charm offensive. “But we wonder if we might talk to you about Reginald Loddington.”

“Who wants ta know?” the man said, his brow furrowing as he dried his hands on his stained apron. 

“I’m Inspector Jack Robinson,” Jack said, backing Phryne’s charm with authority. “And this is my associate Miss Phryne Fisher. We’re assisting Scotland Yard in investigating Mr. Loddington’s death.”

“Miss Fisher?” the man said drying his hands again and thrusting one toward Phryne. “John Welles. Do ya remember me? I used to be the bartender here, now I’m the cook.”

“Oh, John, yes, I remember,” Phryne said. “Good to see you again.”

“You never said you’d spent any time here,” Jack said to her.

“Oh, she was quite the regular back then,” John said. “Back before she started travelin’ the world. Used to close this place down, drinking and dancing.”

“That was a long time ago,” she said, with a wave of her hand, and Jack held his tongue on the matter. “We just want to ask you a few questions about last night. Were you here when Mr. Loddington was here?”

“Sure I was,” John said. “I’m here every night.”

“Did you see him arguing with someone in the hallway here, early in the evening?”

“I don’t recall anything like that,” John said. “I was washing up the dinner dishes and I can’t see the door from the sink.”

“Did you hear any arguing or shouting?”

“If I did, it was all mixed in with the lads and their God-awful warbling.”

“The man Loddy was arguing with was dressed nicely, wearing a bowler, and had his scarf and collar up to hide his face,” Phryne said. “Have you ever seen anyone like that come in here before?”

“We get a few toffs in here, but usually only when there’s a big cricket match in Canterbury and they stop here on their way back to the big city.”

“Do you remember anything unusual at all about last night?” Jack asked.

“Nah. Same ol’ crowd, same ol’ darts, same ol’ arguments. As long as they pay up, I don’t get too caught up in it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Welles,” Jack said. “If you think of anything, call Inspector Chauncey Howard at Whitehall.”

“Or you can leave word with my valet at the Savoy,” Phryne added. 

“Will do, Miss. And I’ll tell the barman one on the house for each of ya. For old time’s sake.”

“Thank you, John,” Phryne said and they left the kitchen.

Out in the hall, Jack took her arm and pulled her close. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a regular here?” he said through clenched teeth.

“I didn’t think it was relevant,” she said, shrugging her arm out of his grip. “Besides, it was ages ago. I was a different person then.”

“It’s probably not relevant, but if the murderer is after your family estate, he could be out there in that mob, placing you in danger just being here.”

“Jack, you’re taking it way too seriously.”

“I’m always serious about your safety,” he said, the gravity of his voice and the look in his eyes catching her heart off guard. “I’ll expect you to tell me everything from now on, regardless of how irrelevant you might think it is.”

“Of course,” she nodded, chastened. “I’m sorry.”

“Just trust me,” he said.

“I do.”

“Good, now let’s go talk to some rabble rousers.” They went to the bar and picked up their drinks – a stout for Jack and a cognac for Phryne – and went over to the edge of the crowd. The men were toasting – and roasting – Loddy and keeping their mugs filled from pitchers on the tables. One of the men appeared to be the ring leader and Jack went over to catch his attention once the crowd had started in on another drinking song. Phryne secured a booth on the other side of the pub where they could speak privately with any witnesses. 

“Have a seat,” Jack said and introduced himself and Phryne and sat down next to her. The man sat across from them and said his name was “Fillmore, and that’s all ya need ta know.”

“Were you friends with Reggie Loddington?” Jack asked, taking out his notebook and pencil. 

“Not friends, but we knew each other and drank together here.”

“Were you here last night? Did you see Loddington arguing with a well-dressed man in the kitchen hallway?”

“Yeah, I was here, but no, I didn’t see no arguin’ back there. Loddy got in a row with a couple of the lads over darts, and then he and Artie started takin’ pokes at each other and that’s when we carted ‘em home.”

“Who took each of them home, do you remember?”

“Nah, I didn’t go outside,” Fillmore said. “But MacFee did, lemme get ‘im.” Jack and Phryne watched as Fillmore pulled another man out of the crowd and brought him over to their table.

“Talk to these people, MacFee.” Fillmore instructed. “They’re tryin’ ta sort out who killed Loddy.”

“Did you see who took Artie and Loddy home?” Jack asked.

“Jackie Nettles took Artie home,” MacFee said, sitting where Fillmore had just been. “And Willie Hobarth was going to take Loddy home, but Willie came back in by himself and said some other bloke offered to take Loddy – said he knew him and would take good care of him.”

“Did Willie describe the man to you?”

“Just said he was a toff,” MacFee said, and Jack and Phryne looked at each other. 

“Are Willie and Jackie here?” Jack asked. 

“I’ll get ‘em,” Fillmore said and walked off again.

“Mr. Nettles, you took Artie home. Do you have the key to his car?” Jack asked when Fillmore returned with Willie and Jackie.

“No, me and Jackie took Artie’s car back to his house this afternoon,” Willie said, stepping forward and sliding into the booth next to MacFee. “His missus said he’s in jail for killing Loddy, is that true?”

“No charges have been filed yet,” Jack said. 

“Tell ‘em what you saw,” Fillmore barked, shoving a reluctant Jackie forward and Jack waved for him to sit down next to Willie. 

“Some toff in a black coat and bowler grabbed Loddy from me and said he’d take him home,” Jackie said. “Gave me two shillings and said he knew Loddy and would take care of him.”

“Did he say how he knew Loddy?” Jack asked.

“Nah. But I don’t know how he could know Loddy if none of us have ever seen him around here before,” Jackie waved his hand at the other men and they nodded. “Cheesed me off, too, cuz Loddy said he wanted to show me something at his house, but now I’ll probably never know what it is.”

“Did he give you any idea what it might be?”

“Some sort of papers,” Jackie said with a shrug. 

“So you knew Loddy pretty well?” Jack asked.

“He’s me cousin,” Jackie said proudly. Jack and Phryne shared a sideways look. 

“How long was Loddy here before he was carted off?” Jack changed the subject to keep them off guard. “Do you remember?”

“He got ‘ere about eight, sir,” MacFee answered. “And we took him and Artie out about ten-thirty, maybe eleven.”

“That’s right,” Willie nodded.

“What else can you remember about the man in the bowler, Willie?” Jack asked. “Any detail will help.” 

“He had a bit of a limp, and was wearing an odd little pin on the lapel of his coat.”

“Can you describe the pin, or maybe draw it?” Phryne asked, plucking the pencil from Jack’s fingers and handing it to Willie. 

“Sure,” Willie said, “I can draw.” Jack turned to a blank page and pushed his notebook across the table. Willie sketched out a passable drawing of a mill rind that matched the tattoo on Loddy’s arm. Jack and Phryne looked at each other again. 

“Thank you, Willie,” Jack said. “That’s most helpful.”

“Are you gonna catch the bastard who killed Loddy?” Willie asked. “Pardon my French, Miss.”

“We are assisting Scotland Yard in the investigation, yes,” Jack nodded. 

“Loddy didn’t have much except for those orchards. He didn’t deserve to die like that,” Jackie said, sadness creeping into his voice and reflecting in his eyes.

“No, he didn’t,” Jack agreed, and everyone was silent for a moment. “You may all go for now,” Jack said. “Except Mr. Fillmore.”

“What else?” Fillmore said after the other three had shuffled back to the drinking crowd. 

“If you hear anything from the lads,” Jack said, “anything that might help, contact Miss Fisher’s valet at the Savoy in London.”

“Yes, sir,” Fillmore said. “Anything to help Loddy.”

“Loddy’s drinking buddies seem to think he was a decent fellow, despite his argumentative nature,” Phryne said after she and Jack were alone again.

“Actions speak louder than words, Miss Fisher,” Jack said, sliding out of the booth and offering her his hand to assist her up. On their way out, they glanced at the crowd of men singing and drinking in remembrance of Loddy. 

“Was it like this when you were a regular, Miss Fisher?” Jack asked.

“Mostly. But the music was better,” she replied and they walked out.

“So, is this Jackie Nettles related to your cook, Mrs. Nettles?” Jack asked as they walked to the car. “And is this another bit of information that you didn’t think was relevant?”

“Yes, they’re married,” Phryne said. “And I didn’t know Jackie would be part of the crowd until he sat down across from us.”

“How long has Mrs. Nettles worked for your family?”

“I don’t know,” Phryne said. “The staff came with the estate, except for Prissy who Mother brought on last year when the former maid, Mrs. Beale, contracted the influenza and had to retire.

“So your cook is married to the cousin of our murder victim. Why didn’t she say anything when we talked to her this afternoon?”

“How could she have known it was relevant?” Phryne asked.

“I believe I may have to update my definition of ‘relevant information’,” Jack said, opening her door for her. 

“It’s a small town, Jack,” Phryne remarked. “People are related to each other here.” Jack made a face, then walked around and let himself in behind the wheel.

“Any theories on what kind of papers Loddy wanted to show Nettles?” he asked.

“If we suspect that the Liddells in the cemetery at Maidstone are related to the Loddingtons, and Nettles is Loddington’s cousin, that could mean Nettles is related to the Liddells, too. So maybe Loddy wanted to show his cousin that information.”

“Maybe to recruit an accomplice for whatever scheme Loddy may have had on Maidstone?”

“It’s possible,” Phryne nodded.

“Well, it’s about all we’ve got right now,” Jack said. “We should have a longer conversation with Nettles, but probably not until he’s sobered up tomorrow.”

“Let’s drive round to Artie’s place and check on his wife before it gets any later,” Phryne suggested.

“Righto,” Jack said, starting the car. “And speaking of tomorrow, should we drive back to London tonight? It’s going on nine o’clock.”

“We don’t have to drive back tonight,” she said. We can stay at Maidstone. The McCarthy’s will be disappointed not to hear all the details about the case, though.”

“It’s up to you,” Jack said. “But driving back would cut into your fan dance time.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” she rolled her eyes but smiled at him all the same.  
+++


	7. Chapter 7

Jack and Phryne drove over to Artie Floyd’s home, directions to which Jack had also procured from Smythe before dinner. They knocked on the door and after a few moments Enid Floyd appeared in her nightdress and robe. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. 

“We’re sorry to call so late, Mrs. Floyd,” Phryne began and introduced herself and Jack. “We’re investigating the death of Reginald Loddington, and we spoke to your Artie earlier today. He asked if we would look in on you, make sure you’re feeling all right.”

“Come in, come in,” Enid said, shuffling away from the door, clearly suffering from arthritis. “Tea?”

“Oh, no, thank you,” Phryne said. “We just wanted to find out if you needed anything.”

“The ladies from church brought over some food, and the lads brought Artie’s car back, so the only thing I need is Artie himself.” A spark of defiance flashed in her tired eyes.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Floyd,” Jack said. “We believe Artie will be released fairly soon.”

“I should hope so,” she said. “The lads brought him home last night and he went straight ta bed. He didn’t do anything to Loddy.”

“That’s the way it looks,” Phryne said. “Are you sure there isn’t anything we can do to help you?”

“No, but thank you, Miss,” Enid said, then gave Phryne a closer look. “You’re the one that owns Maidstone, aren’t you, Miss?”

“Well, my father does, but yes, it’s my family.”

“My grandmother used to tell me stories about playing in the gardens there when she was a little girl,” Enid said, settling into a worn chair by the fireplace and waving her hand at the settee for her guests. 

“Did she?” Phryne asked, curious. She took a seat opposite Enid, but Jack stood nearby. 

“She said the whole town would be invited to May Day celebrations and Harvest Fests and even cricket matches.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Phryne said, even more curious now. “Who was the Baron back then, did she tell you?”

“Baron Lawrence Oliver Davenport Liddell,” Enid said. “Grandmother was very particular that we children learned the name. Said it might be important someday, although I’d never thought of it my entire life until recently.”

“Why recently?” 

“Because Loddy asked me about it a few weeks ago,” Enid said. “We grew up together, you know? All of us around here grew up here, and so did all our parents and grandparents. Loddy asked me if I remembered. I told him the stories that my grandmother told me. He scribbled a note on a scrap of butcher paper and drove off without as much as a goodbye. Just another one of his crazy notions.”

“Enid,” Phryne began, taking a different tack. “Did your grandmother ever mention anything about a Baroness at the time?”

“Oh, she talked about her, too. Baroness Margaret Elizabeth Denicort Liddell,” Enid recounted. “Said she was beautiful, gracious, and kind hearted, and would always join in the fun.”

“Sounds like a wonderful lady,” Phryne said. 

“Mrs. Floyd,” Jack began. “Does the date May 4th, 1850 mean anything to you?”

“Eighteen-fifty? That sure was a long time ago. No, doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“Are you in any way related to Loddy?”

“Artie is Loddy’s cousin, second or third, twice removed, or something. I can’t keep up with all that,” she shrugged. 

“What about you?”

“No, not that I know of.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Floyd,” Jack said, touching Phryne on the shoulder to indicate it was time to go. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“Please let us know if there’s anything we can do for you,” Phryne said. “You can contact Prissy at Maidstone if you need to reach me.”

“Thank you, Miss.”

“Well that was an informative conversation,” Phryne said once they were out in the car. 

“I agree, but I’ll wager you and I have different reasons for thinking so.”

“Enid said the Baroness’s name was Margaret Elizabeth Denicort Liddell. My mother’s maiden name is Margaret Denicort Harris, and my middle name is Elizabeth.”

“Really,” Jack glanced at her, intrigued. “Why didn’t I know your middle name before now?”

“I suppose it never came up.”

“Phryne Elizabeth Fisher,” Jack rolled the name off his tongue. “I like that. Then again, with a name like Phryne, you barely need a last name to distinguish yourself, much less a middle name,” he teased. 

“And what is your middle name, Detective Inspector Robinson?” she challenged. “And don’t say ‘Inspector’.”

“My full given name is Jonathan Edwards Robinson,” Jack admitted. “My paternal grandparents were Scottish Presbyterian missionaries at Lake Hindenmarsh. The American preacher Jonathan Edwards was one of my grandfather’s favorites.”

“Isn’t he the one who was always full of fire and brimstone?”

“The very same. One of his sermons includes a metaphor about a spider dangling over a fire,” Jack said, and Phryne shuddered. “I could quote a few lines if you’d like,” he teased.

“I much prefer to hear you quote Shakespeare,” Phryne said. 

“My father decided not to follow in his father’s footsteps,” Jack continued, which earned a “Thank God” from Phryne. “He met a nice girl from Melbourne whose father was a tailor and had a thriving millinery shop, and once they were married my grandfather brought my father into business with him.”

“Well that explains your sartorial refinement,” she said, reaching over and sliding her fingers along the edge of his coat lapel. “And the rest explains your sense of justice and duty. Are your parents still living?”

“No,” Jack said. “They’ve both passed on.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said softly. “You can borrow mine anytime you want, though,” she offered with a barely concealed giggle. 

“I’ll take a pass on your father,” he replied. “But I’m sure your mother is just as delightful as her daughter.”

They pulled up into the circle drive at the front of Maidstone, and Smythe met them at the door to take their hats and coats. 

“Drinks in the parlor, Miss?” Smythe asked. 

“Yes, please, Smythe,” she replied. “Jack, you go ahead. I’m going to call the MacCarthys to let them know we’ll be staying here tonight.” Phryne used the hall phone to make the call, then put a call in to Whitehall to leave a message for Inspector Howard that they would drop in tomorrow. 

When she hung up and turned around, Jack was standing there with the decanter in one hand and a pair of glasses in the other. “I told Smythe we’ll be taking our nightcap in your room,” he said with a curl of his mouth. 

“Very well then,” she smiled slyly. “Follow me.” He followed her up the grand front stairs and to her private suite. He set the decanter and glasses down on a small table in the sitting area and poured them each a drink. Smythe had laid the wood in the grate for a fire and Phryne set it alight with a long match, then she kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her on the settee. 

“A toast,” Jack said, handing her a glass and settling in next to her. 

“To?” she asked.

“To being together again,” he said. “And doing what we do second best.” 

She matched his smile and tapped her glass to his. “I’ll drink to that,” she said and took a sip. “But what about what we do best? I really don’t have much in the way of ostrich feather fans here in the country.”

“I suppose we’ll have to cope without them,” he said, taking a long sip. “It was quite a day, though, wasn’t it? Like old times.”

“Like a hand in a glove,” she said with relish. “God, I’ve missed you, Jack,” she added with a sigh. 

“I’ve missed you, too,” he replied. “My crime solving wasn’t quite the same after you left,” he admitted. 

“I didn’t mean to leave you high and dry like that,” she said. “And I probably could have waited a day or two. Father and I arrived a week before the ship.”

“I’m sure your mother was thrilled,” he said. 

“She was, but we could at least have had time for a proper goodbye,” she said, resting her hand on his arm. “Especially after your romantic overture outside the observatory.”

“Ah, but I ended up getting one from you at the airfield,” he smiled and raised his glass to her in salute. 

“I’m exceedingly glad you took me up on my offer.”

“And you took me up on mine last night.”

“You took a big risk, coming all the way to England to ask me that.”

“I deduced that I had reasonably good chance of success,” he said with confidence. 

“How could you know that?”

“You wrote me letters. Lots of them.”

“But they were only my recounting of the murder cases. There was nothing in them about my feelings.”

“But there were lots of them.” He paused and looked her in the eye. “You never struck me as someone who carried on a lot of correspondence with your far-flung friends, and letter-writing takes time and effort, so the stack of letters that piled up on my desk at home represents your desire to spend time with me when you could have been doing other things.”

“You really are a fabulous detective,” she smiled at him over the rim of her glass.

“Thank you. Plus, I had other unimpeachable sources conspiring in my favor,” he said with a wag of his eyebrows. 

Phryne narrowed her eyes at him in scrutiny, then opened them wide with realization. “Dot!”

“You’ll have to have a word with your former companion,” Jack said. “She has betrayed your confidence in several matters.”

“How?” Phryne asked, still surprised, but not upset. 

“She told me how you were complaining about all the boring, snooty, and insufferable British men, that you had been staying in most nights writing letters to me, and wishing I was around to work with you on the murder cases Inspector Howard was giving you. She also told me that you were planning to attend the policeman’s ball. I booked my passage to arrive the day before.”

“I surely will have to have a word with her,” Phryne said. “Two words, actually: ‘Thank’ and ‘You’.”

“So are British men really that bad?” Jack asked. 

“Mostly,” she said, pouring them each another drink. “Give me an Aussie any day,” she grinned. “Besides, it’s hard to meet people when you’re sitting at home writing letters.”

“And I thought it was the other way around: You were staying in because you weren’t meeting any eligible men.”

“I went out a couple times when I first got here,” she sighed. “But it wasn’t the same. Oh, I drank enough and danced on a few tables, but hardly met anyone I wanted to, uhm, spend any extra time with,” she explained. 

“I’d say I’m surprised, but I’m also glad,” Jack said. 

“You really are a traditionalist, aren’t you,” she said with a slight roll of her eyes. “Anyway, after a while, I was spending so much time helping Chauncey I either didn’t have time to go out, or I was too tired or uninterested. Aside from a few charity events and things like the Policeman’s Ball, of course. I wrote letters, read books, and enjoyed my own company for most of the last few months. In fact, I haven’t been with a man since the second or third week I was here,” she said, as if it was some sort of an accomplishment. “Well, until last night,” she added, with a sly curl of her lips. 

“It’s almost as if you were waiting for me, Miss Fisher,” Jack said with a knowing look. 

She was at a loss for words at the suggestion, then nodded slowly. “You may be right, Inspector.” 

“I’ve been known to be right about things before,” he said, taking her hand.

“To be honest,” she continued, “the ‘parade’ was over for a while before I left Melbourne.” She looked him in the eye, knowing how important that bit of information would be to him. 

“Why didn’t you tell me then?” he asked.

“I didn’t realize it until after I’d been here a couple months,” she replied. “I tried to carry on like I always had, but I suddenly found it rather empty and meaningless. And there was no one here I could really talk to, like I can talk to you,” she looked at him, surprised by her own vulnerability in the moment. “I guess that’s why I wrote to you so often.”

“I can’t tell you how much it meant to me that you would write,” he said. “It was like having you in the room with me again. Even one letter would have been wonderful. But when they started coming weekly,” he paused to find the right words. “Let’s just say they kept me going.”

“Ah, Jack,” she sighed. “Why did it take us six months and a world away to realize what we’ve already known for so long?”

“I don’t know, but I’m glad we have realized it.” He finished the last of his drink with one swig then stood up and took her hand to pull her up to stand in front of him.

“We can talk about the past as much as you want,” he said, “and the winding, twisted road that brought us here, but here we are, and that’s all that matters to me now.” He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear with his fingers, and she leaned her cheek into his palm. 

“Oh, Jack,” she said and stepped into his embrace. “Here with you is where I belong.”

His kiss melted its way through her body, setting her nerve endings alight with its heat. 

“Sit here, and don’t move,” he said to her after a long, slow kiss. He turned out the light and put another log in the grate. Then he collected pillows and blankets from the bedroom and laid them out in front of the fire. Foxes and fan feathers were forgotten as they fine-tuned the choreography of their intimacy and desire, a waltz that was uniquely theirs. 

++++++


	8. Chapter 8

Phryne rolled over and found herself awake in the middle of the night. She slipped quietly out of bed, put on a robe and let herself out of the bedroom to use the bathroom on the other side of her sitting area. When she returned to bed, Jack was snoring softly and she peered closely at him in the darkness.

Jack. 

She’d entertained many men in her boudoir, but Jack was not “entertainment”. She’d realized soon after she’d come to London that she was tired of being entertained; she wanted to be loved, and the only one who truly loved her was Jack. He’d seen her at her best and at her worst, her highs and her lows, and he had still come after her. He’d known about her dalliances but wasn’t deterred by them. He wasn’t wrong in calling it a “constant parade”, either. That had stung more deeply than she’d cared to admit, because by then she cared what he thought. 

Even so, he had continued to spend time with her, allow her to work on cases with him, treat her with caring and respect, and even woo her in his understated way. She had not seen it for what it truly was until she was away from his subtle smiles, his caring touch, his wry banter, and his deep voice that was like the comforting rumble of distant thunder. 

Scenes flashed behind her eyes, scraps of moments and events where Jack had been there for her. He’d rescued her from danger, he’d comforted her in loss, he’d been a sounding board and a confidante, he’d tolerated all her annoyances, and supported her when others didn’t. He’d even risked losing his job to rescue her. 

Emotion overcame her as she pondered anew, and with deeper clarity, all that Jack Robinson had done for her, and she buried her face in a pillow to cry softly.

“Phryne?” came the groggy voice from the other side of the bed, and a gentle hand rested on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“I – I’m fine,” she sniffed, trying to stifle her tears.

“No, you’re not, my love,” Jack said, turning her to him and brushing the tears off her cheeks. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Oh, Jack,” she pushed herself to a sitting position and hugged the pillow. “I don’t deserve you.”

“But you’ve got it all wrong,” he said, sitting up himself and taking her hand. “I’m the one that doesn’t deserve you.”

“No,” she shook her head. “I’ve treated you horribly. I’ve abused your position for my own gain, I’ve acted as if life is simply a grand lark causing you no end of worry and stress, and I’ve wasted time with lesser men right under your nose without caring about your feelings. But the worst is that I’ve disrespected our friendship in all of that. I’ve hurt you, Jack, and I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracked and she started crying again.

“Phryne,” he soothed, pulling her into his embrace, but unable to say much else. Her confession, while dramatic, was accurate and those old pains he’d fought to suppress began to rise to the surface. He had always known what he was getting into when they started working together, but he couldn’t have stopped himself from falling in love with her even if he’d wanted to. He’d endured all her sins because to live a day without her in his life was unbearable. He’d tried that once, and it hadn’t gone well. But it was unfair to define her by her list of faults, and the positives far outweighed the negatives for him. 

“Neither of us are angels, my love,” he began. “But have you forgotten the times you’ve risked yourself on my behalf?” he reminded her. “You were willing to die at the hand of Murdoch Foyle so that Jane and I would go free. You’ve stepped between me and a gun, you’ve defended me to those who would have liked to see me hurt, and you’ve helped me solve some of the trickiest cases I’ve ever come across. 

“I wasn’t looking for someone when we met,” he continued, “but if I had been, I wouldn’t have been looking for an angel. We’re humans, we’re going to hurt each other, so I’m not worried about that. We can sort it all out, together. All right?”

She nodded and sniffed and wiped her eyes on the pillowcase. He wrapped her in his arms and laid her down into the pillows with him and pulled the covers over them. “It’s all right,” he said softly. “We’re together, and I love you.”

“I love you, too, Jack,” she replied, curling into his protective embrace. 

“Get some sleep now,” he whispered. “We have a big day ahead of us.” She nodded and took a deep breath. Jack waited until she completely relaxed and her breathing became steady and rhythmic before he allowed himself to drift off again. He tried not to worry about her, but his surprise appearance, the change in their relationship, the brutality of the murder, her flashbacks, and the possible threat to her family estate were all going to affect her again before things settled down. 

“I’ll be strong for you, Phryne,” he whispered right before he fell asleep. “I promise.” 

++++

“Jack, you’re up early,” Phryne said, walking from the bedroom to the sitting room. It was not yet eight o’clock and Jack was seated at a writing desk absorbed in a small journal and jotting things in his police notebook. He was dressed, but only wearing his shirt and slacks, and hadn’t yet added his tie, vest or suit jacket. It was a relaxed style Phryne found quite alluring. 

“I couldn’t sleep any more once the sun was up,” he said. She draped an arm over his shoulder and sat on his knee. They shared a lingering kiss, but her curiosity was too strong. 

“What are you looking at?” she asked, touching his teacup as she moved it out of her way. It was half-full, but cool to the touch, indicating he’d been so engrossed he’d forgotten about it. 

“Mr. Loddington wasn’t as uneducated as he appears,” he handed the leather bound book to Phryne. “These are scientific notes and diagrams for all manner of fruit production, from irrigation to grafting. Along with recipes for herbal pesticides and insecticides. You can see it’s all in his handwriting.”

“Where did you find this?” Phryne asked, slowly turning pages and marveling at the well-drawn diagrams.

“In the valise with his other notes,” Jack indicated the open case on the settee. 

“The drawings are really quite beautiful – artistic, even,” Phryne said. “But do you think it’s relevant to the case?”

“Not sure,” he said. “I do have an interest in botany and my mother always had a nice vegetable garden in the backyard, so I have a personal appreciation for it. However, I’d have to dig deeper to find out if there’s something in there worth killing for.”

“And it was hidden away with his other secrets,” she said. “Why would he do that if it wasn’t unique and valuable?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said as she handed the book back to him.

“Well, I’m going to freshen up and then we can go down for breakfast. Why don’t you select an ensemble for me today,” she challenged, indicating her closet with a wave of her hand. “Something that goes with the red coat and hat I was wearing yesterday, maybe?”

Jack opened his mouth to protest, but she had already shut the door behind her. He looked back and forth between Loddy’s journal, the bathroom door and the closet door and sighed. Curiosity got the better of him and he went to her closet. 

When he turned on the light, a kaleidoscope of colors and sparkles greeted him. How was he supposed to choose? He ran his hand over some of the lush furs and feathered wraps, the smooth silks and satins and velvets. He even recognized a few items which brought back ripples of memories. It was like stepping back in time to their days in Melbourne, and he smiled as visions of her in familiar pieces danced in his mind. 

Refocusing, he soon noticed how the items were organized, from the fanciest on one side to the most practical on the other – if anything she wore was ever practical – and turned his attention toward the practical side of the closet. 

Looking closely at each piece, he pulled out a couple things and held them up. Soon he had several pairs of pants and five blouses he was trying to mix and match. He decided on a cream colored silk blouse, a pair of caramel colored herringbone slacks, and a loosely-crocheted duster-length maroon sweater. He also took out a dark brown wool coat as an option in case the maroon clashed with the red. As a final touch, he found a plaid scarf in various shades of brown, red and orange, and hung it over the shoulder of the coat. He laid each piece on the back of the settee so she could see it when she came out of the bathroom.

“How much longer, Miss Fisher?” he called through the door. “I’m getting hungry.” The door swung open quickly, and she was standing there wearing only her un-tied robe and a smile. His groin twitched at the sight of her, as it had numerous times in the past, but he merely took a deep breath and smiled back, as he’d done numerous times in the past. 

“No need to shout, Jack,” she said, and slowly closed her robe and tied the sash. “What did you find for me to wear today?” She ran her hand across his chest as she stepped past him, and he closed his eyes and exhaled heavily.

“Are you sure you want to go back to London this morning?” he asked, stepping behind her and circling her waist with his arms. “Maybe it could wait until after lunch.”

“Jack,” she turned and grinned at him. “You’re not trying to distract me from the case, are you?” she asked innocently.

“And here I thought you were trying to distract me,” he said. He gave her a long look, which she returned, knowing instinctively that to do more at that point would put them in bed all day. That wasn’t a bad thing in and of itself. In fact, he hoped to have a day like that with her soon, when the case was solved. But right now they had a job to do. 

“What a lovely ensemble, Jack,” she said, turning back to the clothes he’d picked out. “This sweater pairs perfectly with these pants – I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

“Go ahead and get dressed,” he said. “I’ll wait out here.” She gathered her clothes without a word, only a sly, knowing smile. When she’d gone into the bedroom and shut the door, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose then chuckled softly. They were definitely going to have to talk about proper timing for distractions. 

He picked up Loddington’s ledger and sat down to scan through it while he waited. On several pages were charted representations of family trees with names and dates written in boxes and connected with lines. He saw Liddells, Loddingtons, and Denicorts, which made perfect sense. On one of those pages, however, a name popped out at him: “Phryne Elizabeth Fisher”. He followed the lines up to other Fishers – her father George Henry, her uncle William Eugene, and his father George William. George William had been married to a Victoria Jane Denicort Liddell. 

Jack turned back to the Liddell page and found Victoria’s name again and studied her family connections, then turned back to the Fisher page and studied Phryne’s mother’s connections. If Jack was reading it correctly, and Loddy’s charts were correct, then not only was Phryne descended from the Liddells through George William Fisher’s marriage to Victoria Liddell, but also through Victoria’s cousin who was Phryne’s mother’s Grandmother. Phryne was the ultimate heir of both the Fishers and the Liddells, and she didn’t even know it. 

His discovery surprised him, but it would surprise Phryne even more. It also meant that she was a distant cousin of Xander Liddell. He turned back to the Liddell page and found where Loddy had written himself in and studied those connections, trying to see what would make Loddy believe he was the heir. He hardly heard Phryne come out of the bedroom he was concentrating so hard. 

“Jack,” she said with a touch of impatience and he looked up. “I said, how do I look?” she asked, turning around.

“You look wonderful, my love,” he smiled. 

“Thanks to you,” she said. “This is my new favorite outfit. Now, what about Loddy’s ledger has you so focused?” She sat down next to him on the settee and he held the book between them so she could see. 

“Remember Sergeant Xander Liddell I mentioned yesterday, that I met at the end of the war?” Jack asked.

“Yes, is he one of our Liddells?” Phryne asked excitedly.

“He is. I was trying to figure out why Loddy believes he is an heir to Maidstone,” he said. “It shows that he and Xander Liddell are actually half-brothers, with the same mother,” Jack pointed to the boxes. “He must be the half-brother Artie mentioned yesterday.”

“Half-brothers? Jack, what are the odds that you had a run-in with the half-brother of our murder victim?”

“I guess it’s just one of those things,” Jack said, shrugging it off, but he wasn’t going to tell Phryne that the eerie coincidence bothered him. “Xander is clearly descended from Lawrence Liddell, the Baron that Enid Floyd was talking about. But Xander’s father died and his mother remarried and that union produced our murder victim.”

“Was their mother an heir to anything, can you tell?” Phryne asked, peering at the pages. 

“I can’t tell, and it doesn’t look like Loddy’s father was either.”

“Does it say anywhere else in the book?” she asked turning pages.

“Each of these people has a long-form entry on these prior pages,” Jack said, showing her. “I’d wager the pages related directly to Loddy and Xander and their parents are the ones that were sliced out of the book,” he said, pointing to the tiny page edges left behind in the crease of the binding. 

“Damn,” she said. 

“Anyway,” he continued, gently removing the ledger from her hands and closing it, not yet ready to show her what else he’d discovered about the heirs to Maidstone. “This gives us an idea of what to have the MacCarthys look for in the valise.”

“Jack, let me see the book again,” she said, hand out.

“You can read more in the Hispano on the way back to London. But for now, let’s go eat.” 

“Oh, all right, Detective Inspector Hollow Leg,” she teased. They put all the evidence away in a locked cabinet and Phryne tucked the key into her pocket. 

+++

“We’re definitely going to have to take a trip to the General Records Office, Jack,” Phryne said as she studied the ledger from the passenger seat as they made their way back to London. 

“One trip to Hatch, Match and Dispatch coming up,” he said. “But let’s wait until after we’ve met with Inspector Howard.”

“Of course,” she said. “There’s definitely a gap in the information about Xander’s grandfather. But I have to ask you,” she paused and looked at him. 

“What’s that, Miss Fisher?”

“Did you notice that my name is in here, on this last page?”

“I did.”

“Did you deduce why?”

“Well, the easy answer is because you’re related to Eugene, who was the rightful heir of his time.”

“What’s the not-so-easy answer?”

“You’ll have to work backward from your Uncle Eugene, find a common ancestor then work forward again.”

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

“And spoil the fun?” he said giving her a smile. She made a face at him but turned back to the book. She pointed, she peered, and she turned pages until she gasped. 

“Jack!” she exclaimed in an awed whisper. “My mother is descended from the Liddell’s, too!”

“Very good,” he smiled. “You’re an heir from both sides of the family.”

“It also means that no one can dispute my claim,” she said. 

“Is that how it works?” Jack asked.

“Well, I’d have to check, but in any sort of land or title dispute, they look at who has the greater claim. It’s not often that someone can claim the title from both the mother’s and the father’s side.”

“Be very careful with that information, Miss Fisher,” Jack cautioned. “Loddy let everyone around Maidstone know he thought he was the rightful heir and now he’s dead.”

“Oh,” she said as that sunk in. “Do you think the killer will come after me, too, to get me out of the way? And my parents, too!”

“If you want, we can call them in Brighton when we get to Whitehall,” he said. “I’m more concerned that you might be considered a suspect in Loddy’s murder since he was preparing to mount a challenge.”

“What?!” she exclaimed, shocked. “How could I have done it?”

“The same way you thought your father could have done it: snuck out, hired someone…”

“Jack!”

“Scotland Yard doesn’t know you as well as the Victoria Police Force does,” he said. “We need to downplay the existence and detail of that ledger until we know more. Especially since you’re helping Inspector Howard with the case. We should drop off the ledger and the valise at your hotel before going to Whitehall.”

“Good idea,” Phryne mused. “But we can’t go back to Chauncey empty handed.” 

“We aren’t. We can give him the book with the orchard improvement notes and diagrams, plus the scrap of fabric and lantern knob we found at the scene.”

“And we did take very good notes during our interviews,” she said. 

“My hunch is on the mysterious man from the city that Loddy was seen arguing with,” Jack said.

“But how are we going to find him in London?” Phryne sighed.

“We follow the clues, just like always,” Jack said. “Hopefully, the full autopsy report will be back and we’ll have more to go on.”

“I hope so,” she said and leaned back against the seat and sighed again. A moment later, the Hispano’s engine revved higher and she felt as if she were being gently pushed back into the seat.

“Jack?” she said, looking at him. “Jack, what are you doing?” His hands were gripped tightly on the wheel and his eyes were trained straight ahead. The red needle of the speed gauge was moving higher, bit by bit. She looked out the front window to see a long, straight road ahead as far as she could see, with no other cars in front of them. 

“Hold on to your hat, Miss Fisher,” he instructed with a smile and the Hispano accelerated with purpose. Phryne’s skin tingled and her stomach dropped. Not being in control of the speeding motorcar intensified the sense of danger and she braced herself against the door and the dash. She let out a whoop as they sped down the road, and Jack’s rich laughter brightened her soul.

+++


	9. Chapter 9

All too soon they had to slow the motorcar down – too many turns and too much traffic. 

“Jack, that was fun!” Phryne declared. “I hope that won’t be the only time you let your hair down.”

“You’re a bad influence on me, Miss Fisher,” he said. 

“Well, I certainly hope so,” she replied. 

Phryne helped him find the way to the Savoy where a young man in a green jacket offered to park the car for them. They took the valise up to her suite for safekeeping, and Mr. MacCarthy met them at the door. 

“Mrs. MacCarthy is out running errands. Will you be needing lunch or dinner, Miss?”

“No, I don’t think so, Mr. M,” she said. “But we need you and Mrs. M to look over some of this paperwork we’ve found.” Jack put the valise on the table and opened it. 

“This,” he said, “Is a ledger containing everything that’s written on these scraps of paper. Except, for the two pages missing, here,” he showed Mr. MacCarthy where the pages were missing from the ledger. “We need to know if you can figure out what was on those pages based on what’s on these scraps of paper.”

“Process of elimination, eh?” Mr. MacCarthy said.

“Exactly. Do you think you and Mrs. MacCarthy can figure that out by the end of the day?”

“We can surely try,” Mr. MacCarthy said. 

“Oh, we’ll be taking this, though,” Jack said, removing the smaller journal with the farming notes in it. “It doesn’t appear to be connected to anything else in the valise.” 

“What is all this about?” Mr. MacCarthy asked, picking through the stacks of papers.

“Someone was doing some genealogical research, and transferring their notes to the ledger,” Phryne explained. “But someone – maybe or maybe not the same someone – has taken out two pages of the ledger and we think those are the most important pages.”

“And this is connected to the murder?”

“Yes. This gentleman here,” Phryne turned to one of the pages with a family chart on it and pointed to Loddy. “Is our murder victim.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Mr. MacCarthy said.

“I’m going to freshen up, and then we can go to Whitehall,” Phryne said, and disappeared into her room. 

“You know, Inspector,” Mr. MacCarthy began once she had shut the door. “It’s a good thing you’re finally here.”

“Why’s that?” Jack asked, a little surprised by the statement. 

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of my wife yesterday morning, and I would never say anything to Miss Fisher, but she’s changed a good bit since she arrived.”

“How so?”

“She seemed to be slowly losing her joie de vive,” Mr. MacCarthy explained. “At first, she was like a sparkling fountain on a summer day that everyone wanted to be around. But I started noticing changes about October. She was staying in at night instead of going out, and often she would have a few drinks and fall asleep on the divan. Talked in her sleep, too.”

“Really?” Jack’s curiosity was piqued. 

“Mentioned you a lot,” Mr. MacCarthy added. “Usually sounded like she was having a bad dream and calling for you to help her.” The older man shook his head. “Mary usually waited for the dream to pass before she woke her up to help her to bed.”

“Did she experience anything strange or even frightening back in the first few weeks she was here?” Jack asked.

“Not that I recall. I’ll ask Mary if she remembers anything.”

“Anything you tell me, I’ll keep in the strictest confidence,” Jack said.

“I know you will. She hides it well, but I could see the light in her eyes dimming. Until this morning, that is,” he winked at Jack. 

Caught off guard, Jack cleared his throat and said, “Good to know.”

“Oh, don’t be shy, Inspector,” the older man chided with a friendly nudge of the elbow. “Men aren’t the only ones who need a little romantic attention to brighten their outlook.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jack said, allowing himself to share a smile with Mr. MacCarthy.

“All right, I’m ready,” Phryne said, coming out of her bedroom with a smile and a small flourish. Jack’s inner detective noticed that she’d changed her shoes to something more suited for the city and added a large gold brooch to her coat. After his chat with Mr. MacCarthy, paying closer attention to Phryne’s every move became even more important than it already was. 

“How long do you have the car for?” she asked as they rode over to Whitehall.

“Until five o’clock today,” he said. “Although, if you think we’ll need it, I can talk to Standish about a weekly rate.”

“Let’s see how today goes,” she said. “But I do like the freedom of my own transportation.”

“Should I swap out for a cabbie’s cap?” Jack asked, removing his fedora and handing it toward her.

“Don’t you dare,” she said, and sighed audibly when he set his fedora back on his head and Jack smiled. 

+++

“The autopsy report is back,” Inspector Howard announced when they arrived at his office. He handed a folder to Phryne and shook hands with Jack. 

“What should we be noticing, Chauncey?” she asked as Jack looked over her shoulder. 

“First off, the coroner doesn’t think he was hit on the back of the head with the shovel. The injury isn’t flat but indented. He said it’s shaped like the long edge of a curved brick.”

“That’s interesting,” she said and shared a look with Jack. 

“Secondly,” Howard continued, “a coin was found in his throat.”

“Payment to cross the River Styx into hell,” Jack said and Phryne nodded. 

“That’s the myth anyway,” Howard replied. “It’s a King George III sixpence from 1816 – a common collector’s piece, easy to find, not expensive, but there was something even more interesting about this coin. It was folded.”

“Folded?” Phryne asked.

“That is interesting,” Jack said, and he and Howard shared a nod.

“Anyone care to enlighten me?” Phryne asked with a touch of impatience.

“A folded or bent coin is considered a good luck charm,” Jack explained. “It’s more common in Europe than the Antipodes, and not as common a superstition as it used to be, but people have carried bent, folded, clipped or even punched coins for good luck or protection for centuries.”

“Why is that so interesting? Aside from it being payment to cross the River Styx?”

“Maybe the killer wished the victim good luck and protection for his journey to hell,” Howard said. 

“Or maybe it was the only coin on him at the time,” Jack said. “I’ve seen coins in victims’ mouths before, but they’re usually recently minted, simple pocket change, nothing that’s a hundred years old.”

“If the coin was the murderer’s good luck piece, why would he part with it?” Phryne asked.

“Maybe he felt he didn’t need it anymore, once he’d killed Loddy,” Jack said. “Maybe he believes he’ll get what he wants now that Loddy’s out of the picture.”

“I’ve been wondering about this for an hour since the report hit my desk,” Howard said. “If the coin was personal property of the murderer, maybe it was handed down in his family for a hundred years. Otherwise, maybe he just bought it at a rare coin dealer specifically for the murder. Each option will support different motives.”

“Is the coin in the morgue?” Jack asked. “I’d like to see it, if I may.”

“It’s right here,” Howard said, opening a desk drawer and handing Jack a small white envelope. 

“May I?” Jack asked, indicating Howard’s desk chair.

“Of course.” Howard stepped aside and Jack sat down. He slid the coin out of the envelope onto the desk blotter and peered at it through a magnifying glass from Howeard’s pencil holder. He used the corner of the envelope to flip the coin over and peer some more. 

“It’s quite worn which means it’s been in someone’s pocket for a long time,” Jack said. “But you can still see the date and George the third’s lovely mug. It’s not likely we’ll know which scenario puts the coin in the murderer’s hands until after we catch him.” 

“Too right,” Howard said, settling into the visitor’s chair next to Phryne. 

“We have some evidence for you, too,” Phryne said and reached into her bag and held out the envelopes. “First, Jack found a bloody lantern knob near where the body was. Then I found a scrap of very nice wool gabardine fabric snagged on a briar along the path about 20 feet from the body.” Howard peered into each envelope and nodded. “Also, we found this small journal in Loddy’s house.” She handed him the book with the orchard plans in it. 

“What is this?” Howard said as he flipped through it and Jack explained their significance. 

“We don’t know if these plans are worth killing someone for or not,” Jack said. “Maybe some of them are patent-worthy, but if you know a master gardener in the area we could have him look at it.”

“I do know a master gardener,” Howard said. “And her name is Madame Zelda Whitefield at the Botanical Gardens. She’s there most days, and always willing to help. Tell her I sent you.”

“Chauncey,” Phryne began, taking a curious tone. “Did your detectives go through Loddington’s effects at his home?”

“They said they did, why?”

“Did they bring back any important papers to you?”

“Oh! Didn’t I give them to you yesterday?”

“No, you didn’t, just this slim folder with the initial police report,” she said, pulling the file out of her bag. 

“I remember now – it came in after you’d already left,” he sorted through a stack of folders on the corner of his desk and handed her one. “Sorry. Yesterday was a bit of a blur.”

“Thank you, Chauncey,” she said, handing the file to Jack who was looking rather at home behind Howard’s desk. “I hope you were able to sleep well last night.”

“I did. Especially knowing you and Inspector Robinson were assisting. We’ve got a lot going on here in the city, and not enough experienced manpower to handle cases like this one.”

“Or woman-power,” Phryne added, and Howard tipped an invisible cap to her. 

“Not a lot in here,” Jack said, paging through the papers. “A few delivery contracts, receipts for supplies, a copy of the deed to his property.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Howard said. “For someone who appeared to be researching the ancestry of local residents, my constables didn’t find any notes or anything of that nature relating to that.”

“You’re sure this is everything the constables discovered when they searched Loddy’s home?” Phryne asked.

“We have strict protocols for evidence collection and severe consequences for evidentiary misconduct. But that doesn’t mean the constables who searched the residence brought back everything of value. And with you two following behind, it was an even more thorough search than usual.”

“We may go back and look again,” Jack said. “There appear to be various hiding places in Loddy’s house.”

“Where did you find this little journal?”

“Under a loose floorboard near the bed.”

“Ah.” Howard made a face indicating his disappointment with his constables. “Well, I’m going to call for some tea, and then you two can tell me everything you found out from your excursion to County Kent.” Jack and Phryne spent the next hour going over the evidence they found, the information gleaned from all the interviews, and some of their deductions. They left out the ledger and the valise for now.

“I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me,” Howard said. 

“There are a few leads that we’re unsure about at the moment,” Phryne explained. “We don’t want to confuse things until we’ve had a chance to investigate further.” Howard was about to protest, but she silenced him with a look. 

“Right. Okay, then, now that you’ve been to the scene,” Howard said, changing the subject, “what do you think about the injury to the back of Loddy’s skull not being from a shovel?”

“The coroner’s report says the shape of the injury is about three inches wide, and slightly concave,” Jack said, reading out of the folder. “My guess is he was pushed backward and landed on a headstone.”

“Now that you’ve told me the crime scene is an ancient cemetery that was my first thought, too.”

“But none of the headstones we found had any blood on them, and they were mostly covered in underbrush,” Phryne said. “If he fell backwards and was never moved, where’s the headstone that made the injury? We didn’t see one in that spot and it’s not listed in the police report.”

“Either there’s a stone we missed that does have blood on it,” Jack said. “Or the murderer dug up the stone and either took it with him or hid it somewhere.”

“I guess we’ll be going back out to Maidstone again to look for it,” Phryne said. 

“But what about the dirt in his mouth?” Jack puzzled. “If he fell backward, how did he get the dirt in his mouth?”

“Here’s my theory,” Howard said. “Maybe he changed his mind about the coin and tried to retrieve it, but couldn’t reach it because it had fallen down into Loddy’s throat, so he covered that up with dirt hoping the coin wouldn’t be found.”

“Not very smart, considering he had to know an autopsy would be performed,” Jack commented.

“It may be the killer wasn’t thinking clearly after committing such a gruesome murder,” Phryne said. 

“Well, I guess we have our marching orders for today, Inspector Howard,” Jack said, coming out from behind the other man’s desk and picking up the orchard journal. “We’ll need this if we’re going to the botanical gardens.” Howard nodded, and Phryne put it and the folders into her bag.

“Good luck,” Howard said. “I’ll be here until five if you want to report in.” 

+++

“Where do you want to start?” Jack asked as they stepped outside. 

“The nearest silversmith,” Phryne said. “I want to ask around about that mill rind pin.” They took the Hispano and Phryne directed Jack toward the House of Garrard on Albemarle Street. 

“The House of Garrard has been the official Crown Jeweler since Queen Victoria,” Phryne explained to Jack as they walked to the door. “They make all sorts of family crest pieces and heraldry items.”

“Miss Fisher!” one of the men behind the counter greeted her as they walked in.

“Marcus,” she smiled cheerfully and held out her hand, which Marcus politely bowed over. 

“Wonderful to see you again,” Marcus said.

“Likewise, my friend,” Phryne gushed. “And I’d like to you meet another friend of mine. Marcus, this is Detective Inspector Jack Robinson with the Victoria Police Force. Jack, Marcus Schmidt; truly a savant when it comes to knowing all there is to know about silver and jewelry.” The men shook hands and said their hellos. 

“We’re here to help our friend Inspector Howard with a case, do you have a few moments?”

“Absolutely, Miss Fisher. Must be an important case if you brought in a detective from Australia.” 

“Actually, Inspector Robinson’s visit was a happy coincidence,” Phryne said, and Marcus raised his eyebrows and looked back and forth between them. Jack spoke up before the silence gained more importance than it needed. 

“We’re wondering if your company may have created a bespoke pin in the shape of a mill rind,” Jack said. “No more than two inches long, something that would be worn on a coat.”

“Gold or silver?” Marcus asked. 

“Sliver.”

“Do you know how long ago it was made?”

“No, we’re just looking to find out who may have ordered or purchased such an item.”

“Even if I could find out if we created it, I’m not sure I would be able to tell you who it was,” Marcus advised. “Our client list is confidential.”

“Understood,” Jack said. 

“Our silversmith might be more likely to remember something like that,” Marcus offered. “He’s been here for thirty years. It’s not a common symbol, but I don’t recall it myself.”

“May we speak to him?” Jack asked. 

“He’s actually out today, but I’ll be sure to ask him tomorrow,” Marcus assured them. 

“Thank you Marcus,” Phryne said. “Oh, and by the way, did you receive mother’s correspondence about her silver service?”

“I did,” Marcus said, and he and Phryne began an in-depth conversation about the repair and replacement of several pieces of family silver. 

Jack’s mind drifted from their conversation and he looked down into the case he’d been resting his elbow on. Below him gleamed rows of rings arranged in bridal sets. He had originally considered purchasing a ring to give to Phryne, but he knew that wouldn’t have been her style. Not to mention he never would have been able to afford a ring suitable for someone like Phryne. The expense of this trip alone had depleted most of his savings, and so far it had been worth every penny. 

His well-laid plans for his arrival and settling things with Phryne had worked out beyond his imaginings, but he hadn’t really planned his exit in that scenario, precisely because he and Phryne would have to plan it together. He didn’t want to return to Melbourne without Phryne, but he didn’t know what he would do if she didn’t want to leave London. He had a job to return to, a pension to earn, and the comfort of being familiar with his surroundings. Could he give that all up? A few options had occurred to him, but there was one, wild idea that was starting to form in the back of his mind. It would certainly be a stretch for him, but maybe that was what he needed. He tucked the thought away as Phryne and Marcus wrapped up their conversation and she returned to his side. 

“That’s excellent Marcus,” she said and shook the salesman’s hand. “Just send the items to Maidstone via courier when they’re ready.”

“Will do, Miss Fisher,” Marcus bowed slightly. 

“Ready to go, Jack?” she asked, and took his arm. They said their goodbyes and left the store. 

“Are you all right, Jack?” she queried as they returned to the Hispano. 

“I’m fine,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“You were wearing quite the pensive expression earlier when I was talking to Marcus and you were staring at the rings in the case.”

“I was thinking about the murder case, not the jewelry case,” he said, not looking at her.

“Liar,” she asserted and stepped in front of him so he couldn’t avoid her eyes. When he didn’t say anything right away, she fingered his lapel and softened her approach. 

“Jack,” she said. “Were you considering buying me a ring?” She looked up into his eyes and waited for his answer. The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly from the discomfort of her question. He closed his eyes and sighed, and when he opened them again, he visibly relaxed and put his arms around her.

“I did, before I left Melbourne, but decided against it,” he admitted. “If you’d like one, I will find a way to make it happen.”

“Oh, Jack,” she said, clearly moved. “You don’t have to. I don’t need a ring to prove you love me.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. 

“Besides, as crazy as it sounds, that little swallow-shaped brooch you salvaged for me means more to me than any engagement or wedding ring ever could.”

“But it’s not really representative of our commitment, is it?”

“On the contrary. Your thoughtfulness in that small act spoke louder than a diamond ring on each finger.” She paused to let that sink in. “In fact, as soon as we get back to the hotel, I will put it on and wear it every day from now on.”

Jack’s eyes watered and he blinked a few times to prevent further moisture. “I know what we have is not conventional,” he said, his voice huskier than usual. “But would you at some point consider wearing a simple gold band even?”

“Of course, Jack,” she said, placing her hand on his cheek. “If it’s important to you, I would be honored.” 

“Thank you,” he whispered. He wiped the corner of an eye with his fingers and let out a nervous laugh. “Look at me, getting emotional over something so small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things.”

“But it’s not insignificant,” she countered. “Jack, you have bent over backward for me since the day we met. The least I can do is wear your ring.”

“Then we will make that happen, but it’ll have to wait until after we solve this case. I need to receive my detective assistant’s wages first,” he teased. 

“Jack!” she laughed and gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder, and they shared a smile. “Before we go any further, however, I need something from you,” she said.

“Name it.”

“Kiss me.”

“As you wish, Miss Fisher,” he said, leaning in to plant a delicious and breathtaking kiss on her mouth, standing next to the Hispano in front of The House of Garrard. 

Who needs Crown Jewels, she thought, when I have Jack Robinson. 

++++


	10. Chapter 10

Phryne directed Jack west through London to the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, pointing out various notable sights along the way. It took the better part of an hour to wind their way there, but London had been graced with another sunny day, so they enjoyed the ride. 

“Kew Gardens was originally the property of Kew Palace, home to centuries of British royalty including the infamous King George the Third, of folded sixpence fame,” Phryne explained. 

“Poor bastard,” Jack commented. “Lost his mind, lost a war, lost America.”

“So you don’t think that the Americans should have revolted against the Crown?”

“On the contrary,” Jack said. “They absolutely should have. The Declaration of Independence lays out the case quite well, and every grievance mentioned is supported by the historical record. And the world is a better place because they did.”

“I can’t disagree with your conclusion, but they did commit treason.”

“It’s only treason if you lose,” Jack asserted.

“It certainly took a lot of guts,” she commented.

“And the courage of their convictions,” Jack added. “Conviction is what keeps you going when your guts fail.”

“And you are certainly a man who backs up his courage with his convictions,” she replied with a knowing smile. Before he could reply, she pointed out the entrance to the Gardens and Jack turned the car onto the long, tree-lined, landscaped drive. 

They told the woman at the ticket gate they were hoping to meet with Madame Zelda Whitefield on the recommendation of Inspector Chauncey Howard. The woman made a phone call from the gate to confirm if Madame Whitefield was available and a docent was quickly called to escort them to her. They were guided through the main conservatory, out a back door, through a formal garden of topiary evergreens, and finally to a low brick building almost completely covered in ivy. 

“Wait here,” the docent instructed as they entered, indicating two wooden chairs against the wall of the sparse, tiled foyer. “Madame will be right out.” Then she was gone. 

They chose not to sit, but instead examined the various photographs and prints on the walls. Jack was intrigued by the detailed drawings of several poisonous plants including wolfsbane, fox glove, and hemlock, while Phryne busied herself with the historical photos. One photograph was a large group of people, listed as staff and board members of the gardens from the 150th anniversary in 1909. A name caught her attention.

“Jack, look!” she said, pointing a gloved finger at the list of names under the photo. Jack stepped over to look at it with her. 

“Reginald Loddington,” he read, while Phryne moved her finger to find him in the photo. 

“There,” she said, pointing to a young man of college age. “How many Reginald Loddingtons do you think there could be in jolly old England?”

“Probably not many, especially ones who would be the right age and vocation for this photo,” Jack said. “Now come over here and look at these.” He led her back over to the three drawings he had been looking at. 

“They’re quite well done, aren’t they?” she said, leaning in closely to get a better look. “What’s the significance?”

“Can you read the labels? Anything look familiar?”

Phryne looked closer. “That handwriting…” she said, her head spinning around to give Jack a wide-eyed look. 

“Mmm-hmm,” Jack nodded and pointed to the bottom right corner of each. 

“R. Loddington,” Phryne read. “That little book may be more valuable than we first expected!” she declared. 

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they,” said a cheerful voice from the other side of the foyer. Jack and Phryne turned to see a spindly older woman in a green garden apron and clumpy boots. Her hair was piled up in an older Gibson girl style, with the many escaping wisps forming a gray halo around her head. Her sparkling emerald eyes and impish smile were straight out of a fairy tale. 

“Madame Whitefield?” Phryne asked, extending her hand. 

“Oh, rubbish! Call me Zelda,” the woman said with a wave of her thin hand. 

“Miss Phryne Fisher, and my associate, Jack Robinson,” Phryne introduced them and she shook hands with them both. 

“They told me Chauncey sent you?”

“Yes, we’re hoping you have a few moments to speak with us about a case we’re helping him with.”

“Any friend of Bouncy Chauncey is a friend of mine,” she said with a conspiratorial wink. “Follow me.” She spun on the heel of one muddy Wellie and clomped off down the hallway. Jack and Phryne followed. Jack mouthed “Bouncy Chauncey?” to Phryne and she shook her head and shrugged. 

Zelda pushed open a pair of swinging doors and they entered a large greenhouse, not visible from the exterior approach. The air was warm and humid, so Phryne removed her gloves and hat, and Jack his hat and overcoat. 

“Welcome to my office,” Zelda grinned, and flourished a wave toward the long, glass space. Fans whirred gently in the ceiling, mist hissed out of elevated hoses, and water dripped and gurgled invisibly, all in service to the rows and rows of planting tables. “How may I help you?”

“How long have you worked here Madame, er, Zelda?” Jack asked. 

“All my adult life,” Zelda said. “I started working the ticket gate at age sixteen. It’s been close to forty years now. Why?”

“We originally came to ask your opinion of this small book,” Jack said, taking it out of his pocket. “But you may be able to offer more than just an opinion. I believe you may know the owner.” He handed the well-worn book to Zelda who seemed to immediately recognize it. 

“Where did you get this?” she asked as she turned pages.

“We found it in the personal papers of Reginald Loddington, of County Kent,” Jack said. “Did you know him?”

“Loddy…,” she breathed, mesmerized by the book, a rush of memory filling her expression. “If you found it in his papers, does that mean…?” she asked. 

“I’m sorry, Madame Zelda,” Phryne said, placing a hand on her arm. “Mr. Loddington was found dead yesterday morning. Murdered.”

“Ohh,” Zelda let out a small cry and walked over to an old garden bench and sat down. Phryne moved quietly to sit next to her. Zelda held the book to her chest as tears filled her eyes, and Phryne handed her a handkerchief from her purse. 

“Reginald was a promising horticulture student who spent almost a year here,” Zelda explained. “He loved botany and plants and gardening, and his ability to research and keep records would have secured him a lead research position at any major university. He left when his father died in a freak farm accident and Reginald had to go home to tend the orchard. He said he would come back after he’d settled the affairs and sold the orchard, but he never came back, and never communicated with the Botanic Gardens again after that.”

“Did you consider it odd that he didn’t communicate?” Jack asked gently.

“Well, he sent me a personal note of thanks for being a good instructor, and asked me to pass on his regrets to the board and staff. But he never gave any further explanation.”

“You don’t still happen to have that note, do you?”

“I do,” Zelda nodded and stood up. “This way.” She led them to a wooden shed in the corner of the greenhouse. Inside was a desk with a typewriter, an old file cabinet, and stacks of books and journals and various garden tools everywhere. Zelda opened a desk drawer and took out an old cigar box. She rifled through the folded papers and cards inside for a bit until she found the right one. “Ah, here it is,” she said and handed it to Phryne, who’d been peering closely at the handwriting on the other notes and cards in the box, much of it matching the handwriting on the note Zelda had just shown her. 

“Dear Madame Whitefield,” Phryne read aloud. “I can’t thank you enough for your expert tutelage in all things botanical. I learned a great deal from you and am forever in your debt. I am also indebted to the Board and Staff of the Botanic Gardens, and I hope you will carry to them my deepest regret for being unable to return to my position there. The harvest is upon us and I cannot leave nor sell the property at this time. Respectfully yours, Reginald Loddington.”

“What time of the year was that?” Jack asked.

“September, 1909,” Phryne read from the card and handed it back to Zelda. “And you’re sure you never received any other correspondence from Mr. Loddington after that?” she asked her.

“No, nothing,” she said, but Phryne caught the slight hesitation that indicated she might not be telling the truth. 

“So what can you tell us about the book?” Jack asked, changing the subject.

“Reginald was studying irrigation and methods for dealing with pests, in order to increase crop production,” Zelda began. “He wanted to help his father with the orchard, but he knew they’d never have enough money to use more modern systems unless he secured a position at a university. He started drafting ideas for irrigation in that book, as well as copying down methods of grafting and pruning techniques from science journals, and old recipes for controlling weeds and killing pests. He also included notes from the research we were doing here.” Zelda paged through the book again. “But these last several pages,” she said, “these are records of the things he’d tried himself at his father’s orchard after he left here. See the date? 1916. He dated every page.”

“You and Mr. Loddington must have worked closely together for you to be familiar with personal notes like this,” Phryne suggested. 

“Oh, I try to be closely involved with all the students who come through here. But Loddy, er, Reginald was truly gifted.”

“Are any of these systems or processes patented, Madame Zelda?” Jack asked.

“No, not that I know of. Although you could say, at the time Reginald created those drawings and notes, they were proprietary information of the Botanical Gardens. But it’s been twenty years and the world has moved on to newer techniques.”

“So the book wouldn’t have any intrinsic value then?”

“Not commercially, no,” Zelda said, gently running her fingers over the book as she held it. 

“Zelda,” Phryne began. “Do you have any photographs of Mr. Loddington from his time here?”

“On that shelf over there, third from the left,” she said, pointing to a row of photographs displayed alongside some certificates and awards. Phryne walked over and took the photo down from the shelf, noticing the lack of dust compared to the other items near it. In the photo, Zelda was in the middle, surrounded by about ten young adults. Zelda’s hair was dark, but the Gibson girl style and the spark in her eye were unmistakable. All the students were looking at the camera, but Zelda was looking to her right.

“Which one is Mr. Loddington,” Phryne asked. Zelda pointed to the young man her younger self was looking at. “He looks like a nice enough fellow,” Phryne commented, remembering the gruff and cranky man she’d met the week before.

“Oh, he was a dear. Very kind and thoughtful, as well as studious and so smart,” Zelda recalled, her voice trailing off wistfully. “Who would want to hurt him?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out, Madame Zelda,” Phryne said, placing a comforting hand on Zelda’s arm. 

+++

“She was in love with him,” Phryne declared as they drove away from the Gardens.

“How do you know?” Jack challenged.

“Let me count the ways,” Phryne said. “One, she called him Loddy right off. Two, she caressed that book like a lover. Three, she didn’t have to look very hard to find that box of notes, and many of the other notes in the box also had Loddy’s handwriting on them. And four, that photo hardly had any dust on it, unlike everything else on the shelf, and she’s looking right at him in the photo.”

“Full marks, Miss Fisher,” Jack said. “But what significance does that have to our case?”

“Oh, probably nothing, but it would have been quite scandalous for them to be romantically involved in 1909. She’s probably fifteen to twenty years older than he was.”

“It seems a shame that Loddington’s career as a horticultural researcher was cut short. His ideas were very innovative and progressive for the time.”

“You know one thing we don’t know about him,” Phryne mused, “is about his wife. He has a daughter, and that daughter had to have a mother somewhere. But not a single person around Maidstone even mentioned a wife, and that cottage he lived in showed no evidence of a woman’s touch anywhere.”

“Are you thinking that Zelda may have been the mother?” Jack asked. “If Felicity Loddington received a scholarship to university, and works at the British Museum, not only would she have inherited Loddington’s intellect, she would be about the right age.”

“Now there’s an intuitive leap, Inspector,” Phryne said, impressed. “Zelda didn’t indicate a lapse in employment, or even ask about Loddy’s daughter, but the fact that she was in love with him would support your theory.”

“And the daughter isn’t mentioned in the ledger either,” Jack recalled. 

“Let’s stop by the British Museum on the way back, see if we can have a few minutes with Felicity Belmont Loddington, aka, Lisa Belmont.” 

+++

“We’d like to speak to one of the employees,” Phryne said to the man at the Museum information desk. “A Lisa Belmont.”

“I’ll have to check if that’s possible,” the man said in a condescending voice and picked up a phone.

“Please tell her we are here on behalf of Scotland Yard and have information about her father,” Phryne instructed. The man gave her a smirk, obviously displeased about being told what to do. Not that Phryne cared. 

“Take these,” said the man, handing them visitor passes after hanging up the phone, “and walk straight back down that hall,” he pointed behind the desk to the side of the grand staircase. “At the end of the hall on the right, you’ll see a door that says ‘Research Offices’. Enter there and they will guide you to Miss Belmont.”

“Thank you,” Phryne said handing Jack one of the passes. The man shrugged; they weren’t his problem anymore. 

In the Research Office, a receptionist named Greta Hastings greeted them and offered to walk them to Miss Belmont’s laboratory. They followed her back out the main hall, then to the right through the galleries. Ancient Mesopotamian sculptures and figurines were grouped together and arranged chronologically. They turned a corner into a dark gallery where only the pieces on display were illuminated by spot lights. It was filled with Egyptian artifacts from the Great Pyramids, sarcophagi, statues, masks, and more. Phryne stopped short and caught her breath. 

“Phryne,” Jack said in a hushed voice, putting his arm around her. She gazed around the room, terrified. “Phryne, look at me,” he said turning her head with a gentle hand on her chin to look in his eyes. “You can walk past all of this without fear. It can’t hurt you. Just look down at the floor until I tell you it’s all right. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” she nodded and looked down at the floor. Jack kept his arm around her and guided her toward the door in the back of the room where the young woman was waiting for them. 

“Is everything all right?” she asked, concerned. 

“It’s a long story, but she’ll be fine,” Jack said. “Is that the last of the Egyptian galleries?”

“Yes, for now.”

“Coast is clear, Miss Fisher,” Jack said gently and Phryne looked up. They were in a sterile white hallway behind the galleries, and rows of doors were labeled with offices. Phryne exhaled a sigh. 

“I apologize, Miss Hastings,” Phryne said gathering her faculties. “I have this weird phobia about mummies. Was terrified by one on a visit to a museum when I was a child and never got over it.” Jack knew that wasn’t the reason, but he was relieved to see her shake it off. 

“It’s quite all right, Miss Fisher,” Miss Hastings said. “When you leave, you can go down this hallway to the right and follow the exit sign on your way out to avoid the Ancient Egypt Gallery.” Phryne and Jack thanked her, then followed her down the hall to a door marked “Laboratory 2.”

“Miss Belmont, your visitors have arrived,” Miss Hastings announced as she held the door of the lab open for Jack and Phryne. A young woman who was hunched over a microscope straightened, seemed to collect her thoughts then turned to greet them. Phryne noticed the resemblance to Madame Zelda immediately. Lisa also wore her hair piled on top of her head, and her small nose was turned up on the end, just like Zelda’s. On Lisa however, it was more defiant than impish, especially combined with Loddy’s dark and brooding eyes. 

“Good afternoon,” Lisa said, approaching them with an outstretched hand and forced smile. “Lisa Belmont, Senior Research Assistant.”

“I’m Phryne Fisher and this is my associate Jack Robinson,” Phryne said. “We’re here on behalf of Scotland Yard.”

“Nice to meet you, but I have already spoken to the police. I have a lot of work to do, and don’t have very much time.” Phryne couldn’t tell if she was hiding her sorrow at her father’s death, or if she wasn’t bothered by the news. Her eyes showed no signs of puffiness from crying, and her voice carried no hint of cracking. 

“We only have a few questions,” Phryne explained. Lisa looked back and forth between Phryne and Jack and finally relaxed her shoulders. 

“All right, come this way.” They followed her to a small meeting room and Lisa shut the door. “A constable from Whitehall was here for over an hour yesterday, quizzing me on everything to do with my father’s business and affairs and associates. I know very little about that since I started at Oxford. I live here in London and spent six months in Egypt last year with a research team. I don’t spend much time in County Kent anymore.”

“I’m sorry to hear you were estranged from your father,” Phryne said. Jack quietly took out his notebook and started writing. 

“We weren’t estranged, exactly,” Lisa said, her brow furrowing. “We just disagreed on a lot of things. It’s not that I didn’t want to visit with him, but I have to focus on my research in order to maintain my scholarship. He knew how important that is because he lost a scholarship himself when his father died and he had to go back and work the orchard. He was always a little sad and bitter about that.”

“What was his scholarship for?” Jack asked.

“Botany, also here at Cambridge. It’s one of the reasons I was accepted, because they knew what an outstanding student he was. My father is – was – brilliant with plants and he loved that orchard. He said it was what saved him when my mother died giving birth to me.”

“What is your birthday?” Phryne asked.

“May the twenty-fifth, 1910, why?”

“We found some documents in your father’s papers with lots of family records, but we didn’t see your name listed.”

“Oh, you found the infamous ledger, did you?” Lisa said with a roll of her eyes. “That was something else we disagreed on. He wanted me to use my position here at the Museum to secure access for him to some historical records of County Kent for the last two hundred years. I can’t do that – I’m still only a student! And even if I was a full professor, I have no authority to give that kind of access to just anyone. He showed up here one day a week before Christmas, insisting that I give him access, going on about his obsession with a mysterious inheritance and that he had new information. He really caused a scene and it was quite embarrassing.”

“What was the new information he was talking about?”

“Something about a relative named Lawrence Liddell in 1850, but he behaved like I should know what he was talking about.” Lisa sighed and put her face in her hands, her frustration revealing the chinks in her armor. “My father was a wonderful man when I was young. We used to have so much fun together and I adored him. I worked the orchard with him as soon as I could walk and pick up fruit off the ground. He was the one who got me excited about science and encouraged me to follow my interests. He told me he had met women with great scientific minds who were doing important work, and not to be afraid of what people say. 

“I learned about archeology in school when they taught us about the Pyramids and the Holy Land and that fascinated me. I started looking for artifacts around my father’s orchard and found all kinds of things. My favorite finds were several old coins, King George III sixpence from the early 1800s. Three of them were folded for good luck. I gave one to my father, one to Uncle Xander, and I have the other one.” She reached into her skirt pocket and brought out a folded and worn sixpence, just the like the one that had been found in Loddy’s mouth. She handed it to Phryne who passed it to Jack. Jack gave it a close inspection before handing it back to Lisa. 

“Your father had a half-brother. Were they close?”

“Uncle Xander – his last name was Liddell – was about ten years older than my father. With that much of an age difference, they were as close as you’d expect. I know Father took it hard when we got the news that he’d died in the War, or at least that’s what they told us. They buried him in France.”

“Did you get along with him?”

“I suppose. I was only four when he left, and only saw him once after that when he had leave around Christmas time, probably 1916. I remember he made delicious mincemeat pies and called me ‘Sprout’.” Lisa smiled at the memory, the last remnants of her tough exterior slipping away. 

“Anyway, it was after the war that Father started digging into the family history, but he didn’t become obsessed with it until the last few years.”

“Do you know what it was that changed his interest into an obsession?”

“No, it was not long after I left for university, so I wasn’t privy to whatever it was that triggered it. He started writing to me, though, telling me what he’d found out, but none of it really made sense to me. He kept talking about being the heir to great landholdings and his research was trying to prove that, but it all seemed so far-fetched that I didn’t give it much thought. I had my own studies and research to worry about.”

“Would you be willing to share those letters with us? Maybe we can use them to make the connection.”

“Sure. They’re in my flat so I’ll have to make arrangements for another day.”

“Didn’t it interest you that your Uncle Xander Liddell had the same last name as one of the former Lords of Maidstone?”

“What?” Lisa said with a shocked expression. “No, Maidstone is owned by the Baron of Richmond. I believe the family name is Fisher… Oh!” Lisa’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, are you related to the Baron, Miss Fisher?”

“I am,” Phryne said. “The current Baron is my father.”

“Miss, I’m so sorry if I was rude to you earlier.”

“That’s quite all right, Miss Belmont,” Phryne said. “I had hoped that wouldn’t come up in our conversation.”

“Why?”

“So you would be honest with me.”

“Oh. But when were the Liddells owners of Maidstone?”

“Sometime around that 1850 date you mentioned, but we don’t know how far back from there yet,” Phryne explained. 

“Do you think my father thought he was a descendent?”

“From what we can tell, it was your Uncle Xander that was the descendent. His mother married a Loddington after her first husband, a Liddell, died. We’re not sure there’s a direct line to your father. We don’t have all the information yet.”

“So he was trying to prove he – or at least his brother – was a descendent of the owners of Maidstone, but why?”

“Maybe he thought you would be able to benefit somehow.”

“Oh, my. If so, that would put his claim up against your family then, wouldn’t it.” 

“Yes, it would,” Phryne nodded. 

“Miss Fisher, I don’t want to fight anyone for land or property or a title. I’ve earned everything I have, and I only have one more year of study before I earn my degree and get a full paying job here. That’s all I want.”

“Don’t worry about it at all,” Phryne said. “I hope our conversation, and your father’s death, won’t be too much of a distraction for you,” Phryne said kindly. “But, if you need anything, or want to talk, you can reach me here in London at the Savoy.” She handed Lisa one of her ‘lady detective’ calling cards and borrowed Jack’s pencil to write “Savoy” on the front. “We only want to find out who did this and bring that person to justice.”

“Thank you, Miss Fisher, Mr. Robinson,” Lisa said, standing up. “I will call you if I think of anything else, and to bring you those letters.”

“Thank you, Miss Belmont,” Phryne said. “This information has been invaluable. May we take you to dinner soon where we can speak further? The investigation will certainly yield more information.”

“That would be lovely, Miss Fisher. Maybe one day next week after I plough through that stack of documents on my lab table out there.”

“We’ll look forward to it,” Phryne said, and she and Jack said their goodbyes.

+++

On the way out, they took the alternate route suggested by Miss Hastings, but when they returned to the Grand Lobby, Jack stopped and turned to look toward the Ancient Egypt Gallery.

“What is it, Jack?” Phryne asked.

“Miss Fisher, I wonder if you will indulge me a few moments in the Egypt Gallery.”

“Jack, I can’t go back through there,” she shook her head.

“You don’t have to, but there is something I would really like to see.”

“What could you ever want to see in there after what we went through?”

“The Rosetta Stone.”

“Oh,” Phryne said, surprised. “Why?”

“Because I’ve always wanted to,” he said. “In fact, it was on my list of things I wanted you to show me before my sightseeing was interrupted by a murder.” 

“Oh, well, of course, Jack,” Phryne smiled. “Take all the time you need. I’ll just look at these statues of naked Greek men over here,” she said pointing to the opposite side of the Grand Lobby. 

“Thank you,” he said, and squeezed her hand before striding off toward the display. 

The Rosetta Stone was set in a prominent place in the center of the gallery. It rested in a hefty frame about three feet off the floor, and was slanted like a speaker’s podium. Spotlights shone on the surface, setting the inscriptions in deep relief. Jack stared in awe at the magnificent artifact. The ability to translate Egyptian hieroglyphics had opened up a whole new world of exploration, for good and for ill. Standing there, Jack realized that if it hadn’t been for the Rosetta Stone, Murdoch Foyle wouldn’t have been able to understand the myth he’d used to enact his reign of terror on those young girls, including Phryne’s sister, Janey. 

He tried not to dwell on the evil actions of a sick mind, and focus instead on the great discoveries brought about by the Stone, and how the translation had piqued the interest of so many around the world, including himself. It spoke of the power of language to bring people together, expose new ideas, and give people hope in possibilities. As a policeman and a detective, those were ideas he could believe in. 

A colorful movement caught his eye to the left and he turned to see Phryne wandering in the outer gallery, trying to avoid looking at the Egyptian section, but clearly waiting for him. He smiled to himself, tipped his head toward the Stone as a small gesture of thanks, and walked swiftly toward her.

“Ready to go, my love,” he said, coming up behind her, catching her by surprise.

“Oh! Jack, you startled me.”

“What’s really startling is how hungry I am,” he said, then made a show of looking at his watch. “And look – it’s time for tea.”

Phryne gave him a big smile. “I know just the place.”

+++


	11. Chapter 11

“All of this new information about Loddy and Zelda and Lisa is fascinating, but I don’t know if it’s brought us any closer to discovering the murderer,” Phryne sighed as she sipped her tea. She and Jack had secured one of the last available tables in the busy J. Lyons Corner House in Coventry, where the food was delicious, the service was quick, and the tea blend a house secret. 

“I’m looking forward to seeing what the MacCarthys discover in the piles of papers from the valise,” Jack said. “I’m hoping that will lead us to the culprit. Maybe there’s another family member we don’t know about yet that has heard about Loddy’s research and may be trying to eliminate challenges to the claim.”

“As if it would matter,” Phryne said. “You’ve already discovered that I have greater claim to Maidstone than anyone else.”

“But Loddy was certainly intelligent enough to have figured that out himself, so why didn’t he – or the real murderer – make any attempts on your life when you were visiting Maidstone in the last six months?” Jack mused.

“Jack!”

“It would certainly make a weaker claim more eligible.”

“Jack Robinson, you’re awful!” she declared but laughed. “You’re not wrong, but you’re still awful.” Jack merely grinned at her from behind his teacup.

“Still, it’s a good thing I arrived when I did, Miss Fisher,” he said in a self-assured tone. “To protect you from shovel-wielding murderers bent on taking over Maidstone.”

“Do you think he’ll try again?” Phryne asked, intrigued.

“If he thinks there are more people in his way,” Jack replied. “If he’s seen the ledger, then he knows you’re in the way.”

“But Loddy isn’t even a blood relative, how could he be in the way?”

“I suppose because he knew too much.”

“And we’re definitely sure the murderer is male?” Phryne asked.

“I suppose a strong woman could have created those wounds, but so far we haven’t run into any likely suspects in that category,” Jack said. 

“We don’t have any suspects at all, Jack,” she grumped. “At least not one with a name.” 

“Well, we now know where the coin in Loddy’s mouth came from – his own pocket.”

“I’m glad we didn’t tell Lisa that,” Phryne said. “I think it would have been a difficult piece of news. I mean, we’ll tell her eventually, but not yet.”

“There is another clue we haven’t followed yet,” Jack said. 

“What’s that?”

Jack pulled the business calling card from his pocket that they’d found at the Fox Den and handed it to her. “Hastings, Basset, Partridge & Bolsover, Fiduciary Partners, Limited, 60 Threadneedle Street, London,” he recited. 

“That’s right,” she said. “Why would Loddy write this bit of information on this particular card? I mean, the card could have come from my father, but that seems rather indirect, don’t you think?”

“I think Loddy had a connection with that firm, but maybe not in the same way as you and your father do. And when we find that connection, maybe we’ll find the murderer.”

“And you still think it’s the mysterious man from the city who was seen arguing with Loddy the other night, who was most likely the same man who took him home from the pub?”

“I do, but, as you can see just from looking around this room and in the streets outside, finding a particular well-dressed man in a bowler is going to be difficult.”

“A bowler, a slight limp, and a lapel pin in the shape of a mill rind,” Phryne reminded him.

“My guess is that any item of clothing he wore that night will have been burned by now because it would have been covered with blood. Quite possibly his hat, too.”

“Back to square one,” Phryne sighed. 

“Well, it’s almost four o’clock,” Jack said looking at his watch. “I need to go by the motorcar dealer before five to secure the Hispano for a full week. How close is the General Registry Office, and how late are they open?”

“I have a better idea,” Phryne said. “Yes, let’s go by Standish’s to take care of the car and stop by Whitehall to check in with Chauncey. But after that, let’s go by your hotel and collect your things, and get you settled with me at the Savoy. We can rest up a bit, go down to dinner at eight, then sit down with the MacCarthys and the ledger and see what else we can figure out. We can go to ‘Hatch, Match, and Dispatch’ in the morning. I think we’ll know more of what we’re looking for then.”

“Works for me,” Jack said. He reached for his wallet, but Phryne had already placed enough money on the table to cover the bill plus a nice tip. His traditional sensibilities caused an involuntary furrow of his brow.

“Save your money, Jack,” she said. “We’re on a case, so it’s covered under business expenses.”

They left the café and drove over to Standish’s dealership. After a bit of haggling, at which Mr. Standish was no match for Phryne, she outright purchased the Hispano for a very reasonable price, handed him enough money to cover rental fees for the balance of a week, and promised to have her banker send over a check for the vehicle as soon as possible, after which she would come by and sign the paperwork. It was an offer Mr. Standish couldn’t refuse.

“So we can add horse trading to your list of skills,” Jack commented wryly as they drove over to Whitehall.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s a dress or motorcar, shopping is shopping,” she declared. “Besides, I’ll sell it back to him at a much reduced price when I leave England.”

“And when will that be?” Jack asked. 

“Don’t miss the turn,” Phryne said, pointing to the entrance to the parking area. She wasn’t nearly ready to discuss departure plans with Jack quite yet. 

+++

“What news do you have for me?” Chauncey asked as they settled in his office a few minutes later. 

“First, we stopped by the House of Garrard to ask about the mill rind pin,” Phryne said, plopping down in one of the visitor chairs and propping her feet on the desk. “But the silversmith was out, so my contact there will be in touch with me tomorrow.”

“Are you sure the pin was from House of Garrard?”

“Not at all, but it’s the largest silver dealer for bespoke and heraldic items, so it’s the best place to start. If they didn’t make it, then maybe they’ll know who did.”

“All right, go on.”

“Then we went to the Botanical Gardens to meet with your Madame Zelda. She determined that the journal of orchard notes does not have any commercial value, but we did learn that Mr. Loddington himself worked as an intern at the Botanical Gardens for a short time while he was at Oxford. Madame Zelda, was one of his instructors there. He had to cut his studies short because his father was killed in an accident on the farm and Loddington had to go home and tend the harvest.”

“Small world, isn’t it?” Chauncey remarked. 

“Very much so,” Phryne said, electing not to tell Chauncey about the perceived affair between Zelda and Loddington. 

“Lastly, we were able to spend some quality time with Loddington’s daughter, Lisa, at the museum this afternoon. She told us about finding a pair of folded King George III sixpence at the orchard when she was a girl, one she gave to her father and the other she had in her own pocket. So it appears the murderer put Loddy’s own good luck piece in his mouth, but we chose not to tell her where her father’s was found, not yet anyway.”

“Well, that explains the provenance but not really the why,” Chauncey said. “It also proves the killer knew Loddington well enough to know he’d have that coin in his pocket.”

“We may have to talk to the pub rats at the Fox Den again,” Phryne said.

“Miss Belmont also mentioned that a constable had interviewed her for more than an hour yesterday,” Jack said. “But we didn’t see his notes in the folder you gave us this morning.”

“Oh, right. It was still being transcribed,” Chauncey said and took another file from his ever growing stack and handed it to Jack. “Here’s your copy.”

“I think tonight we’ll go over all the information we have so far,” she explained, “come up with a plan for tomorrow, then stop by here in the morning before we follow more leads.”

“No suspects so far, though?”

“Just the man in the bowler that Loddy argued with at the Fox Den. No one we talked to seemed to know who he was.”

“I did have Artie Floyd released earlier today. We didn’t have anything solid to hold him on, so we had to let him go.”

“We’re fairly certain he’s not the murderer,” Phryne said.

“I agree,” Chauncey sighed. “Usually I wouldn’t be so concerned about the random murder of a farmer in the country, but the connection to Maidstone puts you in danger, Miss Fisher, so it would benefit all of us to get this one solved quickly.”

“I agree.”

“I would offer you police protection, but you’ve brought your own this time,” Chauncey said.

“And, as I’ve said many times before Chauncey, I can take care of myself.”

“All the same, stick together, eh? Whoever this bloke is, he’s vicious.”

Jack and Phryne left the police station and drove to Jack’s hotel. The Berkshire was not the Savoy, but it wasn’t low class, either. There was a doorman, a valet, and crisp green awnings, and the guests coming and going were mostly of the merchant class. 

“Please wait down here,” Jack whispered when they walked into the lobby. “I’ll ring for the bellman to bring down my bags.”

“Why?”

“Please, just have a seat and I’ll be down in five or ten minutes.” He held her eyes until her rebellious nature relented and she sat in one of the comfortable chairs. He quickly headed for the stairs, while she busied herself reading the file Chauncey had just given them. 

Jack hustled up to the third floor and entered his tiny room that was barely big enough for a bed, a wardrobe and a wash stand. The first thing he packed up were the stacks of papers he’d brought with him that he’d spread out over the bed the other day. Included in the stack were Phryne’s letters and the various notes he’d taken in preparation for the trip, which he wrapped inside a shirt and packed in the bottom of his case. He didn’t let her come up to help because he hadn’t wanted her to see all the research he’d done lest it appear obsessive, but the truth of it was, he had obsessed over the trip, and seeing her again, and proposing to her. Something that important required careful planning, and he smiled remembering how she liked to say he was a man with a plan. 

He packed the rest up as quickly as possible then looked around the room to make sure he had everything, checking under the bed and inside all the drawers just to be sure. Finally, he rang down to the bellman’s stand from the one luxury in the room – the telephone. A young man in a green jacket with gold trim and pulling a rolling cart knocked on his door a few moments later. 

When they exited the elevator, Jack went to the front desk to settle up while the bellman took his cases to the door. Phryne stayed put, giving Jack space to handle his business. Soon he walked over and held out his hand. 

“Ready?” he asked.

“Of course,” she smiled, taking his hand as she stood. “You know, Jack, this really is a nice little hotel.”

“Little being the operative word. I think my room was smaller than your butler’s pantry in Melbourne.” Outside, the valet was helping the bellman lift Jack’s trunk into the boot of the Hispano. 

“She’s all set, guv’nah,” said the valet. 

“Thank you, Chip,” Jack said, pressing a few coins into the young man’s palm. He’d already tipped the bellman in the elevator. 

When they arrived at the Savoy, the valet greeted Phryne with a jolly halloo. “Have these brought up to my suite, please,” she said, handing him a tip. “And please be careful parking the motorcar.”

“Yes, Miss,” the young man said, and whistled for a bellman to bring a cart, while Phryne led Jack to the front desk. 

“Hello, Charles,” she said to the man behind the expansive marble counter. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Fisher, how may I help you?”

“I need a second key for my suite, please,” she said. 

“Of course,” Charles glanced at Jack before turning around to the big board and plucking an additional key off a hook and handing it to her. Phryne promptly handed it to Jack. 

“Charles, I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Jack Robinson,” she said with a big smile. Jack’s stomach flipped over – not just at her words, but also from the obvious enthusiasm with which she said them. 

“Mr. Robinson, pleased to meet you,” Charles said. “And congratulations to you both.”

“Mr. Robinson will be staying with me while I’m in London,” she added. “Anything he needs can be charged to my account.”

“Of course, Miss Fisher,” Charles said, nodding. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Robinson.” Jack nodded and managed a thank you, though he was still recovering from the surprise of Phryne’s declaration. 

“I have a question, Miss Fisher,” Jack said as they crossed the lobby. “You’ve introduced me to everyone else as your friend or associate, but why did you introduce me to the front desk clerk as your fiancé?”

“That is what you are, isn’t it?” she smiled impishly at him. “Besides, I can’t very well be giving a ‘business associate’ a key to my suite, can I? At least, not in proper London society. The staff here are supposed to be discrete, but things end up on the society pages anyhow.”

“I didn’t think you much cared for all of that,” Jack said as she unlocked the door. 

“I don’t, but Mother does.”

“Ah,” Jack said. 

“Did I startle you when I said it?” she asked him as they took off their hats and coats.

“I must admit, you did catch me off guard with that one,” he smiled. “But in a very good way.” He stepped close and pulled her to him. “The thing is, if you say ‘fiancé, people will expect there to be a wedding at some point in the future. That’s not something we’d discussed.”

“Maybe it’s something we should discuss,” she smiled and leaned into him. They were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Miss Fisher, your luggage,” said the bellman. She opened the door and the young man wheeled the cart in and Jack helped him unload the trunk next to Phryne’s bedroom door, and his suitcase was placed on top. Phryne requested he bring up an additional armoire with plenty of hangers so Jack would have somewhere to hang his clothes. The young man nodded, then Jack passed him a few coins and sent him on his way. 

“Where were we?” he asked, pulling her close again and kissing her. “What was it you called me downstairs?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye. 

“My fiancé,” she replied.

“Say it again.”

“My fiancé, Jack Robinson,” she said again with a smile.

“I do like the sound of that, especially coming from my fiancée, Phryne Fisher,” he smiled back and kissed her again. 

++++

“So where are the MacCarthys?” Jack asked as he poured them each a drink. He’d removed his jacket, vest and tie, and had settled on the large, comfortable settee, feet propped up on the ottoman. 

“They always go to dinner between five and seven,” Phryne said. “There’s a little place they like to go and meet up with friends.” She’d slipped off her shoes and tucked herself next to Jack, who handed her a glass. “This note they left on the hall tree says they want to show us their progress on the ledger when they return.”

“Good. What time is our dinner?”

“Eight, why? Are you hungry again?”

“A bit. Think Mrs. M left any of her scones lying about?”

“I’ll check,” Phryne said, feeling a little hungry herself, with still over an hour until the dining room opened downstairs. She rummaged through the cabinet near the small kitchen area off the main parlor where Mrs. MacCarthy usually stashed any non-perishable or baked food items. “Ah! Success!” she declared, extracting a round tin.

“What is it?” Jack asked as she sat back down. Phryne pulled off the lid and lifted the waxed paper. 

“Mmm, cheese straws,” she grinned holding the tin out for Jack.

“What’s a cheese straw?” he said, taking out one slightly orange, finger-shaped biscuit.

“It’s an American thing, apparently. It’s like a shortbread biscuit but flavored with cheddar cheese. Goes very well with whiskey,” she grinned.

“Mm, this is rather good,” Jack nodded after taking a test bite of the cheesy, peppery snack. The rest of it disappeared quickly. “And yes, they do go well with your fine single-malt.”

A little while later, the door opened and the MacCarthys bustled in, arms laden with packages. 

“We can help you with those,” Phryne said, hopping up from the couch followed by Jack. Everything was laid out on the dining table to be sorted and put away. 

“Any goodies, Mrs. M?” Phryne asked. 

“I got some of those chocolates that you like,” she said. “And more whiskey, a couple bottles of wine, some fruit and other nibbles.”

“Oh, good, because we we’d eaten half of the remaining cheese straws just now,” Phryne said. 

“Och, child, you’ll spoil your dinner,” Mrs. MacCarthy scolded playfully. 

“Do you have time for us to show you what we discovered about the ledger?” Mr. MacCarthy asked.

“Probably thirty minutes or so before we have to get ready for dinner,” Phryne said. 

“That should be enough for the broad strokes.” Mr. MacCarthy collected the valise from the room he and his wife shared and brought it to the table. He opened it and took out the ledger, which was sitting on top of neatly stacked and tied bundles of papers, and they all sat down at the table. 

“First thing we did was organize the stacks of papers, as they didn’t seem to be in any sort of order,” Mr. MacCarthy explained. “And we studied the family chart diagrams so we’d know what we were looking for.”

“It’s quite fascinating,” Mrs. MacCarthy said. “I didn’t know this was your family history, Miss.”

“Turns out our murder victim is a distant cousin,” Phryne said. “But it’s all connected to Maidstone.”

“Right, so what we found is this,” Mr. MacCarthy said, opening a bundle of papers. “These notes here cover the disinheritance of Alexander James Liddell, the seventh Baron of Aylesford. Lawrence Oliver David Liddell, third Baron of Aylesford, rewrites his will in 1850 to disinherit Alexander from all property and financial assets, except for a townhouse in Chelsea and a monthly stipend. He keeps the title, as that can’t be transferred to anyone else due to primogeniture, but the bulk of the Baron’s holdings go to his daughter, Victoria Jane Liddell. Victoria married Lord George William Fisher, second son of the Baron of Richmond.”

“That’s the connection!” Phryne exclaimed. “But if he was the second son, he wouldn’t have had any title either, really.”

“Not until his older brother died in a shipwreck, unmarried and without heirs of his own, leaving George to take the title.”

“So Victoria had the money, and George came into the title later.”

“Exactly,” Mr. MacCarthy said. 

“Why was Alexander disinherited?” Jack asked. 

“We haven’t figured that out yet,” Mrs. MacCarthy said. “I looked through all these pieces of paper, and there’s no trace of that story.”

“So let me see the ledger,” Phryne said, turning to the page with Xander and Loddy and their ancestors. “Lawrence, Alexander, Lawrence James, and Xander,” Phryne read off the names in descending order. “With Xander dying in the war, that means the title, Baron of Aylesford, is extinct.”

“I don’t know how all of this peerage stuff works,” Jack began, rubbing his chin, “but do you think Loddington was trying to claim that title? Baron of Aylesford, not Baron of Richmond?”

“He couldn’t, Jack,” Phryne explained. “He is not a direct, blood descendant of a Liddell. Once his mother’s first husband and Xander’s father died, that connection to the Aylesford line was lost to any future children she might have.”

“But if there’s another child somewhere,” Mr. MacCarthy said, “even a bastard son of any of the men you mentioned, one of them would have claim to the title. But they would have to petition the Crown for reinstatement and any division of holdings.”

“But the holdings of Maidstone became part of the Fisher family fair and square due to Lawrence’s will, and no court would go back that far to break up a will,” Phryne reasoned.

“Most likely not, no.”

“But if that person exists, a descendent of any of the Liddells, he could also be the murderer,” Jack said solemnly, and the rest of them nodded. 

“We also found this stack of agricultural drawings and such,” Mr. MacCarthy said, handing Jack a packet of papers in an old and well-worn envelope. The return address on the back flap was the Botanical Gardens. Jack pulled the papers out carefully and glanced through them. 

“Loddington sure liked to have documentation for his documentation,” Jack commented. “These all look familiar,” he said, “but I’ll have to compare them to the farming journal.” 

“Oh, and the other big bit of information we discovered is this,” Mr. MacCarthy turned past the ledger pages with the family charts. “There are two more pages missing,” he said, showing them stubs in the binding. Then he took out a different stack of papers from the valise. “We believe this information was on those pages. They show that Maidstone is in dire financial straits.”  
+++


	12. Chapter 12

“What?” Phryne’s jaw dropped and she grabbed Jack’s arm.

“Somehow Mr. Loddington was able to gather information on Maidstone’s recent financial records,” Mr. MacCarthy continued. “Seems many of the investments made were in American enterprises, and as you know, they had a stock market crash back in October. The investments have lost loads of money in the last few months.”

“That can’t be,” she declared, shocked, but defiant. “It just can’t. Something’s not right.” She reached for the papers Mr. MacCarthy was holding and he handed them to her. 

“I’m only telling you what we found, Miss,” Mr. MacCarthy said, as Phryne scanned the pages. 

“These are just handwritten notes copied from other documents. How accurate can they be?” Phryne challenged, ready to dismiss them out of hand. “Right Jack?” she turned to look at him, hoping for affirmation that this news was untrue.

“It’s possible they’re inaccurate, yes,” he said, withholding judgement, but the unspoken question remained: why would an experienced researcher such as Loddington copy inaccurate information?

“There is good news, Miss,” Mr. MacCarthy said, treading lightly.

“What’s that?” Phryne looked back at him, confused and doubtful.

“It seems that there were two sets of holdings,” Mr. MacCarthy said as he handed her another document. “The Maidstone property holdings were separate from your parents’ holdings. Your parents’ investments were all in traditional British enterprises like tea plantations in India and steel mills in Hong Kong, and things of that nature.”

“Oh,” Phryne said, looking over the papers, but still unsettled from the news. “Oh, I guess that’s good,” she said and looked at Jack again who put a comforting arm around her shoulder.

“I can’t make much more sense out of the details,” Mr. MacCarthy said with contrition. “So you may have to call round to Lord Bolsover’s office soon.”

“Ugh,” Phryne groaned, her mood darkening even more. 

“Is that the Nigel Bolsover from the business card?” Jack asked.

“Yes, Nigel Edward Philip Bolsover, the Baron of Nampwich-Horksley,” Phryne said with disgust. “Well, his father is the Baron and Nigel will inherit the title, but Nigel acts like he already has it. His father, the Baron, is friends with my father, and he’s also the one who’s been the trustee of the Fisher finances since before the war. Nigel has been taking over the management of some of his father’s accounts in preparation of the Baron’s retirement.”

“And one of those accounts is your family,” Jack said.

“Yes, well, Maidstone and my father’s finances. I took my inheritance elsewhere and split it between London and Melbourne, so I’ll be fine. It’s my father I’m worried about. Again,” she sighed heavily.

“If Maidstone is in financial jeopardy, that’s a strong motive for murder if someone thought they could clear the way to take over,” Jack said.

“Nigel may be a snooty, simpering, racist, misogynist, colonialist, know-it-all who can’t do anything for himself except brag about his social standing, but he’s hardly a murderer,” Phryne scoffed then clarified. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s everything people hate about British men all rolled into one so I have no problem with him being a suspect, but I doubt he would do anything so violent and messy.”

“All the same, he’s just moved to the top of my suspect list,” Jack said. 

The clock on the mantle made a single soft chime for seven-thirty, and Phryne took a deep breath and straightened her spine. “Time to get ready for dinner, Jack.” Everyone seemed to understand that the subject of Maidstone was closed for now. 

They packed everything back into the valise and Phryne said she would keep it in her room. Someone knocked at the door and Mr. MacCarthy went to open it. 

“Did you request an extra armoire, Miss Fisher?” he asked.

“Yes, I did,” she said. “For the Inspector’s things,” she waved her hand toward Jack’s trunk and case. “Set it next to the other one in here,” Phryne said to the bellman, and indicated her bedroom. The bellman and a helper rolled the armoire in, disappeared into the bedroom for a few minutes, then left with the empty cart. 

“I’ll be happy to unpack for you, sir,” Mr. MacCarthy said to Jack. 

“That’s all right. I’ll manage, thank you,” Jack said. 

“After we go down to dinner, it’s all yours, Mr. MacCarthy,” Phryne said, giving Jack a look. She topped off her whiskey and turned toward her room. “C’mon, Jack. I need help with my zipper.” Jack gulped down what was left of his drink and followed. 

“Jack,” Phryne said after the door was shut. “Let Mr. MacCarthy take care of you while you’re here. Let the man do his job. You’re going to have to get used to having a valet from now on anyway.”

“From now on?”

“Think about it, Jack,” she said, sidling up next to him. “Whatever happens after this case is over, you won’t be the one pressing your suits, and it surely won’t be me.” She paused as realization struck him. “We’re together now, and wherever that takes us, we will have household staff.”

“Yes, it’s definitely something I’ll have to get used to,” he agreed, avoiding the obvious topic of what their future might look like. There was too much going on right now to have those kinds of discussions. 

“So what should I wear?” Phryne asked, satisfied with his answer and changing the subject. 

Jack was about to say she would look lovely in anything, but after he passed her outfit-picking challenge that morning, he decided to play along. 

“What have you got?” he asked.

Phryne opened wide the doors of her armoire which was overflowing with color and fluff and sparkle. She reached in and pulled out two dresses, one of which he recognized: the olive green silk dress she’d been wearing when they’d waltzed alone at The Grand Hotel not long before she’d left for London. The other dress was dark red with lace and beading, but he ignored it. 

“The green one,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. 

“You remembered,” she smiled and put the red dress away. 

“How could I forget?” His voice dropped into that low and rumbly register that vibrated deep within her. He stepped close to her and pulled her against him. “I replayed that moment in my mind a thousand times after you left.”

“As did I,” she admitted. She didn’t know if it was the whiskey or the news about Maidstone, or simply being tired from a long day, but whatever the reason, her emotions were high. Add Jack’s embrace to the mix and she was defenseless. 

His kiss was slow and tender, and she sighed and melted against him. Even the mere mention of waltzing with him was enough to set her heart spinning. 

“You know, Jack,” she said softly when they came up for air. “There is room service here.”

“As tempting as that is, we are not missing dinner tonight,” he replied. “I feel the need to parade my fiancée in front of all those fancy people down there.”

“Is that so?”

“I plan to spend a couple hours gazing at you in that dress while I imagine helping you out of it later.”

“Undressing me with your eyes, Jack Robinson? How scandalous.”

“Won’t be the first time, or the last.”

“Now that’s scandalous,” she grinned. “I suppose I better go put it on, then,” she said, turning toward the bathroom. 

“What should I wear, by the way?”

“Did you bring your blue suit?” she asked over her shoulder.

“I did.”

“And my favorite tie?” Her voice now echoing off the bathroom tiles. 

“I brought several. I’ll let you pick,” he said. He left the bedroom to collect the needed items from his luggage. Mr. MacCarthy was already unpacking his suits, his iron and ironing board at the ready. 

“Do you think you can give a quick press to this blue one here?” Jack asked.

“Of course, sir,” MacCarthy said with a smile. “I’ll have it ready in about 10 minutes.”

“Thank you,” Jack said, taking a fresh shirt from his case and collecting his shaving kit. 

“Do you need help selecting a tie to go with the suit?” MacCarthy asked.

“Miss Fisher has decided she would like to choose my tie this evening.”

“Smart man,” MacCarthy said with a sly nod. 

Jack went back into the bedroom, placed his kit and shirt on a chair, and sauntered over to lean on the bathroom doorframe. Phryne was already in the green dress, and he silently watched her touch up her makeup – fresh mascara, a puff of powder, more lipstick. In his mind, she was beautiful with or without makeup, but the way a bit of cosmetics transformed a woman’s face always fascinated him. 

Her dress shimmered as she moved, and his memory of their first waltz rose fresh in his mind. She combed her hair, set a golden headband just so, then leaned back to look at herself, still not realizing he was standing only a few feet away. 

“Jack?” she called to him and turned, startling them both and she let out a small cry of surprise. “Oh, Jack! Don’t sneak up on me like that,” she said, panting, her hand over her heart.

“I’ll make more noise next time,” he offered, stepping toward her. She stepped into his arms, the silk of her dress allowing his hands to slide easily over her body, just as it had done that first time they’d waltzed, the first time he’d touched her body in such a personal way. The feeling was etched upon his psyche. 

“Are you sure you can’t bet tempted with room service?” she breathed. 

Before he could respond, his stomach growled and they both laughed. “I suppose that’s a no,” he said. 

“Bathroom’s all yours then,” she said, leaving him to freshen up. Mr. MacCarthy knocked a few moments later, handing Jack’s suit to Phryne who brought it to him. By the time he’d put it on, she’d already come back with the tie she’d chosen – the one he’d worn the day they’d said goodbye at the airfield. He was glad he’d brought it. 

He sat on the bed so she could tie it for him. The intimate way she touched his clothes, smoothed his tie and fingered his lapels, as she’d done many times in the past, was just one more way they communicated. 

“Wait here,” she said softly and went to her dressing table. When she returned, she handed him the swallow brooch. “Will you put it on for me?”

He opened his hand and she placed it in his palm. “Did you know,” he began as he reached for her dress, his fingers sliding gently against her skin under her neckline as he pinned on the brooch, “that British sailors have been getting swallow tattoos for centuries to indicate their intention to always return home, just like real swallows return to the same nesting site every year.”

“My grandfather was a sailor,” she said, her voice catching with his touch. “No wonder he gave my grandmother the brooch.”

He nodded, took her hands and looked into her eyes. “Also, real swallows mate for life.”

Her eyes widened with understanding and her voice turned husky. “Welcome home, fellow swallow.”

Jack’s small smile shone in his eyes. “Yes, welcome home.”

They stood in silence, lost in their contemplation of each other, the reverence of the moment a warm glow between them. 

The mantle clock softly struck the hour, bringing them gently back into time and space. Jack’s stomach growled again and Phryne rolled her eyes.

“Let’s get you down to dinner before you shrivel up,” she teased. She chose a black brocade wrap with gold fringe and wrapped herself in it, making sure the brooch was showing. 

Jack stood in front of the full length mirror to make sure nothing was out of place, then realized he was still in stocking feet. He opened the door to look through his trunk, but Mr. MacCarthy had already anticipated him. 

“Looking for these?” the valet said, handing Jack his black shoes, freshly buffed. 

“Perfect, thank you MacCarthy,” Jack said, and sat on a chair to lace them up. 

“You look so lovely, Miss,” Mrs. MacCarthy gushed when Phryne exited the bedroom. “Oh, and I love your little swallow brooch!”

“Thank you, Mrs. M,” Phryne said. 

“So how will you be introducing me to your society friends tonight,” Jack asked as they walked down the hall toward the grand staircase.

“I suppose it will depend on who it is. Don’t want to throw pearls before swine,” she said. 

“I’ll follow your lead then,” he responded.

“Take your time on the stairs, Jack,” Phryne coached him with a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s all part of the show.” They descended the sweeping, two-story staircase with leisurely nonchalance, her hand on his arm, and soon people in the lobby were glancing, pointing behind their hands, and following their every step. Phryne held her head high, and Jack allowed himself a small smile as he watched everyone ooh and ahh over her. Eyes followed as they made their way to the Grand Dining Room.

“Ah, Miss Fisher!” greeted the maître d’. “Good evening.”

“Good evening, Claude,” she smiled brightly. “I’d like to introduce you to my fiancé, Mr. Jack Robinson.”

“Mr. Robinson, pleasure to meet you, sir,” Claude nodded his head in a brief bow.

“Likewise,” Jack replied.

“A table for two please, Claude,” Phryne directed.

“There are two seats at Lord Chamberlain’s table if you’d like,” he offered. “All the regulars are here.”

“Not tonight, Claude,” she said. 

“Very well then. Follow me.” Claude led them to a table in a corner with a view of the entire room and handed them menus. “Your waiter will be with you soon.”

A smiling young waiter named Lawrence appeared in moments, greeted them warmly, and Phryne introduced Jack again as her fiancé. 

“Would you like to hear the specials?” Lawrence asked. 

“Yes, please,” she said. Lawrence described several different dishes, including a duck, a pair of Cornish game hens, and a 12 oz. prime cut of American beef, the latter of which caused Jack to involuntarily lick his lips. 

“No need to look at the menu,” Jack said closing the folio. “I’ll have the steak.”

“As will I,” said Phryne. “And a bottle of your best Bordeaux.”

“Right away, Miss Fisher, Mr. Robinson,” Lawrence nodded and left. 

“So, you come here often?” Jack teased when they were alone.

“I eat here a few times a week,” she replied. “I know all the staff by now, and I tip generously.”

“What was that bit about Lord Chamberlain’s table?” 

“I usually sit with him and his entourage or another group of friendly people, especially when I’m by myself. But, as I told Claude, not tonight.” She smiled at him and reached across the table for his hand. 

“I notice most of the men here are in tie and tails,” he said. “I could have worn mine.”

“And look like everyone else?” Phryne tut-tutted. “Jack, this is a special occasion – our first dinner out as an official couple. We both know what we’re wearing means to each other. The memories they hold.”

“I can’t disagree with you there,” he smiled. 

“Besides, you are far and away the most handsome man in this room, and possibly all of England, so it doesn’t matter one bit what you’re wearing.” 

“What about Australia?” he asked, giving her a fake pout.

“That goes without saying,” she grinned. 

A sommelier arrived with their wine and opened it, handing Jack the cork. He sniffed it as was customary and smiled, gesturing with his hand to go ahead and pour, though he really didn’t know what he was sniffing for. The sommelier poured a splash into Jack’s glass and handed it to him, and Jack continued to pretend to know what he was doing with sniffing and swirling and tasting while Phryne watched him intently. 

“Delicious,” he declared and the sommelier filled both their glasses, bowed politely and left.

“You have no idea what you’re doing with the wine, do you.” Phryne said, narrowing her eyes at him. 

“It’s all part of the show, right Miss Fisher?” he bantered back. “The wine is delicious, though, so let’s make a toast.” He picked up his glass and Phryne picked up hers. 

“To the memories we’ve made, to the ones yet to be made, and to making them together,” he said.

“And to a pair of swallows finally coming home,” she replied. They tapped their glasses and sipped their wine, comfortable with simply gazing at each other in silence. 

Lawrence stopped by to quickly drop off some warm bread and a small crock of soft butter, and Jack couldn’t hold out any longer. 

“I have to admit, my stomach is starting to growl, too,” Phryne said, taking a piece for herself. They both reached for the butter with their knives at the same time, and engaged in a miniature sword fight over who should have access to the butter first. 

“Oh, go ahead, Jack,” Phryne laughed, finally giving in.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

More diners had begun to arrive, fashionably late, and Phryne recognized most of them, so she regaled Jack with names and sordid details of the upper class patrons. Soon, a couple approached them, the woman smiling as she dragged her escort behind her. 

“Miss Fisher!” the young woman exclaimed.

“Adelle, how good to see you,” Phryne oozed and stood up to exchange air kisses. Jack stood as well, 

“I haven’t seen you in an age,” Adelle declared, “and I’m so glad you’re here because I want you to meet my fiancé, Joseph Beauclerk, the Baron of Titchfield.”

“How wonderful,” Phryne said. “Congratulations.”

“Joseph,” Adelle said, “Miss Phryne Fisher, heir to Maidstone.”

“How lovely,” Joseph said, bowing gallantly over her hand. “My family property, Rivenlea, is just down the road in Canterbury.”

“How delightful,” Phryne said. “Jack, this is my friend, Lady Adelle Ferndale. Adelle and Baron Titchfield, I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Senior Detective Inspector, Jack Robinson, of the Victoria Police Force.” Jack shook hands with both of their visitors while Adelle looked Jack up and down. 

Joseph engaged Jack in conversation about Melbourne and his sea voyage, giving Adelle the opportunity to whisper to Phryne. 

“A policeman and an Australian?” Adelle asked. “Really, Phryne. You could do so much better, marry a landed gentleman, expand Maidstone’s holdings…”

A seething anger and disgust rose like bile in Phryne’s throat and her jaw clenched. “Seems our waiter didn’t mention that tripe was on the menu,” her voice dripped with sarcasm as she looked Adelle up and down, taking in her couture dress and expensive jewels. “But tripe is still tripe, no matter how you dress it up.” Adelle straightened and thrust her nose in the air.

“Joseph, darling,” Adelle said, taking his arm and laying down the sickly sweetness. “Let’s go sit down and let Miss Fisher and her date enjoy their dinner.” The sneering emphasis she put on the word ‘date’ caused Phryne to grip her chair tightly to avoid slapping the girl. Adelle practically yanked Joseph’s arm as she led him away before a proper goodbye. 

“What was that all about? What did she say to you?” Jack asked after their visitors were gone. This time he sat in the seat to her right instead of across from her, and placed his hand protectively on her back. 

“Just about the rudest, ugliest thing anyone could say to me tonight, of all nights,” she replied, the anger and adrenaline still rippling under the surface. 

“Did she criticize your dress or…?” Jack asked, needing to know what had set her off. 

“No, she…,” Phryne paused, not wanting to hurt Jack, but needing him to know why she was so upset, so she turned the knife-like barb on herself. “She criticized me for choosing you,” she finally said, unwilling to repeat the awful words and implications Adelle had used. 

Jack was quiet for a moment, the angles of his face adjusting to each emotion – confusion, realization, anger, and concern. None of it on his own behalf, however; Phryne’s distress was his focus.

“Why are you giving a damn about her opinion?” Jack asked.

“It was just so hateful, malicious even. I was shocked.” Phryne shook her head. “We met at a few charity luncheons and she seemed like a nice young woman. I had no idea she carried such bigoted notions. You heard the way she said ‘date’; she wasn’t even acknowledging your status as my fiancé.”

“I think you’re taking this too hard,” Jack tried a different tack, thinking of all the emotional hits she’d taken in the last few days.

“Jack, you don’t understand,” she said. “There’s a certain segment of British society that still considers all Australians to be…” she hesitated. “Undesirable in general and unworthy of mixing with the upper classes. It’s the damn king’s fault.”

“You’re right, I don’t understand,” Jack said, baffled. 

“Before he was married, Prince Albert had an affair with a married Australian woman called Sheila Loughborough,” Phryne explained. “The King offered him the title of Duke of York if Bertie would end things with Sheila. Even if she had been able to divorce her husband, Bertie couldn’t have married her because the Church of England doesn’t allow royalty to marry anyone who’s been divorced. So Sheila became a pariah and Australians became personas non grata among Britain’s elite. That’s why what Adelle said was so ugly.”

“Sounds like that’s what she thinks is important,” Jack reasoned. “I’m fairly certain that’s not what’s important to you though.”

Phryne sighed, the tension easing. “You’re right, Jack,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. “I’m making too much of it. She’s just an ignorant, selfish girl who was taught that social standing is more important than anything else.” 

“I’ll take my Collingwood girl over that any day,” he soothed, placing his hand on top of hers. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly and they shared a look of intimacy and gratitude. 

“Dare I ask what you said back to her?” Jack asked, eyebrow raised. 

“I told her I didn’t realize tripe was on the menu,” she said, taking a sip of wine and feeling normal again. 

“There is not a time when I would ever want to be on your bad side, Miss Fisher,” he remarked with a smile, earning him a smile in return. 

Their food arrived, and Lawrence topped off their wine glasses. Jack declared the steak to be as good as any he’d had in Australia, which was high praise, as Australian beef was prized around the world. A few other dinner guests stopped by to say hello, and all of them were lovely and kind and congratulatory. Even Lord Chamberlain came over to inquire why she was not sitting at his table. When Phryne introduced him to Jack, he boomed his congratulations and insisted they sit with his party at the next available opportunity. 

After dinner, Phryne excused herself to visit the Ladies lounge. She sat down at a dressing table to touch up her lipstick, but could hear women talking around the corner, in the tiled area near the sinks. Their gossipy tone echoed and Phryne’s ears perked up. 

“I can’t believe she’s marrying a policeman!” one of the women declared incredulously.

“And an Australian to boot!” another said.

“For someone who pretends to be so modern, she’s not taking charge of her inheritance properly,” said a third. 

“Well, that’s the rub isn’t it? She wasn’t born into it, so she doesn’t understand her responsibility.” This fourth voice was the ever-charming Adelle, and Phryne’s stomach churned. “But even as nouveau riche, marrying a commoner, much less an Australian, makes the rest of us look bad. What’s wrong with British gentry that she can’t choose a baron or an earl?”

Phryne collected herself and pretended to come breezing into the space at just that moment. “Good evening, ladies,” she smiled. “Who are we gossiping about tonight?”

The women gave each other stunned looks and stammered a bit before Adelle spoke up. “Lady Carlton,” she lied. “She’s been trying to get us to read banned books, like DH Lawrence and Theodore Dreiser.”

“And Rabelais,” added the first woman.

“And Balzac,” added the third.

“Oh, really?” Phryne drawled. “You know, you ladies ought to read all of those books, especially if you’re married or planning to be.” The other women gasped in horror at the improper suggestion. “Most especially if you plan on keeping your husband in your bed,” Phryne continued. “Otherwise, he’ll find opportunities for dalliances with women who have read them.”

“My husband would never!” the second woman declared, and the others agreed that neither would theirs.

“And while you’re enjoying your castles and jewels in your twilight years,” Phryne continued, “wondering why your husbands haven’t touched you in decades, Inspector Robinson and I will be naked in bed together every night until the day we die.”

“Miss Fisher, I’ll ask you not to speak so scandalously,” the second woman retorted.

“I’ll speak however I like, Alice,” Phryne declared. “And you said your husband would never stray? I’m sorry to report that he already has,” said paused for effect. “With your friend here, Lady Ferndale.” 

“What?!” Alice cried. “Adelle! Is this true?” For her part, Adelle looked suitably embarrassed, and soon they were all talking at once, pointing fingers, and both Alice and Adelle had burst into tears. 

Phryne flounced out and hurried back to Jack. “Sorry it took me so long,” she said. “We need to excuse ourselves now.”

“Why, what’s going on?” Jack asked.

“I’ll tell you back in the room,” she said. She reached in her bag and left a few shillings on the table for Lawrence, stopped briefly to say good night to Claude and ensure he gave their regards to the chef, then headed briskly for the stairs. 

“What happened,” Jack whispered as they walked down the hall.

“Oh, you know me,” she rolled her eyes. “Can’t keep my mouth shut.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Jack said, his voice tinged with wariness.

“I may have stirred a hornets’ nest,” she said, unlocking the door and shutting it quickly behind them. She strode to the liquor cabinet to pour them each a drink, tossing her wrap on a chair along the way.

“Will you be needing anything tonight, Miss, Inspector?” Mrs. MacCarthy asked, poking her head out the door across the parlor.

“No, thank you, Mrs. M. We’ll be fine from here,” Phryne said.

“So what kind of hornets’ nest could you have stirred in the Ladies Lounge?” Jack wondered. 

“It’s not just for answering calls of nature, Jack,” she rolled her eyes and handed him a drink. 

“I suppose that’s good, otherwise I was starting to be concerned for your health, you were gone so long.”

“It’s also a gossip den,” she revealed, wagging her eyebrows at him and taking her drink and the decanter over to the seating area.

“I see. And what kind of gossip did you run across tonight?”

“The delightful Lady Ferndale and a couple others were gossiping about me, of course,” she said, with a self-satisfied flip of her bobbed hair. 

“Is that good or bad?” Jack asked. “Because you were quite upset about her comments earlier.”

“I was around the corner, listening in,” she said, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet under her on the settee, and patting the seat next to her for Jack to join her. “They were going on about how I was shirking my duty for not marrying a baron or an earl. When I appeared and asked them who they were gossiping about, they lied about someone trying to get them to read banned books. So I told them they ought to read them if they wanted to keep their husbands happy.”

“I’m sure that went over well,” Jack remarked with wry curl of his mouth.

“It gets better – or worse, depending on your perspective. I suggested that while they were busy accumulating land and wealth and wondering why their husbands weren’t sleeping with them, that you and I would be naked in bed together until our dying days. They were properly scandalized.”

“I’m sure they were,” Jack chuckled. 

“Then I dropped a bit of a bomb on my way out,” she said, biting her lip.

“Should I be worried for my safety?” he asked, not worried for one moment.

“I revealed that Lady Ferndale had had an affair with one of the other women’s husbands.”

“Now I’m worried for your safety,” he said, with an actual trace of worry in his voice. 

“I probably shouldn’t have, but everyone else knew it except poor Alice.” 

“So it wasn’t enough you had to equate Lady Ferndale to tripe, you had to reveal her sin in front of the woman she sinned against.”

“It sounds like a lot less fun when you put it that way,” she pouted.

“I much prefer the manly way of settling a disagreement,” Jack concluded. “You step outside, take a poke at each other, shake hands and be done with it.”

“And not make use of my quick wit and sharp tongue?” she asked. 

“Both of which should be registered as dangerous weapons,” he teased and she smiled. 

“London society is insufferably proper,” she complained. “And will remain so as long as Britons worship the monarchy. As soon as we solve this case, we’re leaving England,” she said, tossing back the last of her drink and pouring another. 

That last remark got Jack’s attention. “We are?” he asked.

“Yes, as soon as possible. Of course I’ll have to make sure Maidstone and my parents’ investments are safe and sound first, but that shouldn’t take long. Then it’s back to Melbourne for good.”

“I have a hard time believing you’ll be able to stay in one place for long,” he said.

“I might surprise you,” she smiled over the rim of her glass.

The phone rang and Phryne hopped up to answer it. “Phryne Fisher speaking … Oh, hello Father … Yes, we’re fine … Inspector Robinson is here. He arrived the other day … How was your trip to Brighton? … That’s wonderful … Yes, I’d love to talk to her … Hello, Mother … Just lovely, how are you? … I’m so glad … Yes, we’ll probably come out tomorrow for dinner and spend the night … Well, we have some things to do in the city during the day … Yes, we’re helping Inspector Howard with the Maidstone case … the case of the local fruit vendor, Reginald Loddington, being killed in the woods on the Maidstone property the other morning … No one from Scotland Yard called you? … I’ll speak to Inspector Howard tomorrow, but it’s just as well, it would have ruined your trip … No, you don’t have anything to worry about. Everything’s being taken care of. We’ll tell you all about it over dinner tomorrow … Yes, he’s looking forward to meeting you, too … I will … Love you, too. Good night, Mother.”

“Apparently, no one called my parents about the murder the day the body was found,” Phryne said, coming back to sit next to Jack, who had removed his jacket and vest and loosened his tie and collar. 

“That’s odd,” Jack said, his brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t they notify the property owner? That’s basic police work.”

“Maybe they thought I would call them myself,” she said. “But I was so caught up in the case and having you here, I suppose I completely forgot.”

“Well, like you said, it would have ruined their holiday, so maybe it was for the best,” Jack reasoned. “Besides, you were probably not in any frame of mind to talk to your father, since you were trying to accuse him of being involved for most of the first twenty-four hours.”

“True,” Phryne agreed, taking a long sip of her whiskey. “Speaking of what’s best, however,” she said, leveling a sly look at Jack, “I’d say it’s time we turn in and do what we do best.”

“Miss Fisher, you change the subject faster than a hummingbird changes direction in flight,” Jack teased. 

Phryne put her glass down, then stood in front of Jack. “Can a hummingbird do this?” she asked, then seductively drew her dress up to her thighs and straddled Jack’s lap. He swigged down the last of his whiskey then placed both hands on her backside. 

“What’s a hummingbird?” he said, no longer caring about anything else but the silken swallow perched on his lap and the desire rising to greet her. She gave him another sly smile and bent to kiss him. He pulled her firmly against him, as hungry for her now as he had been for that steak dinner earlier. She slithered against him and he held her mouth on his, wanting nothing more than to devour every inch of her. 

He levered himself off the settee, lifting her with him, and she wrapped her legs around his body. He carried her to the bedroom and shut the door behind them. The only lights were from the city outside the window, but it was enough for Jack to find the edge of the bed and sit down, with Phryne still wrapped around him. 

He broke the kiss and guided her to stand in front of him. “I believe I promised to help you out of your dress tonight,” he rasped. 

“You did,” she breathed. Jack slowly slid his hands up the sides of her thighs, allowing the smooth fabric to move seductively between his palms and her skin. His hands continued up her body, front and back, and she let a whimpering sigh escape. Finally he pulled the dress over her head revealing her silken lingerie. Phryne sighed as if she’d been freed from a cage, and in that sigh, Jack understood her just a little bit more. 

He relieved her of every last bit of clothing and turned her to sit on the edge of the bed where he’d been. Maybe devour wasn’t the exact word for what he did next, but kneeling in front of her, his head between her thighs, hearing her moans and cries of pleasure, satisfied him in a way no food ever could. 

++++


	13. Chapter 13

Jack awoke with the sun as it filtered through the sheer curtains and tickled his eyelids. He yawned and stretched and rolled over to watch Phryne sleep. It was a rare occasion to see her still, relaxed, and quiet and he couldn’t help but smile. When she was awake, she was all coiled energy ready to spring, and sometimes being around her was exhausting. Not that he would trade it for the world, but he was thankful she could be at peace for a few hours each day. 

He’d certainly noticed a change in her demeanor since he’d seen her last, as if she were wearing a heavy coat on her heart. It wasn’t all the time, of course; she was her usual upbeat, engaging self most of the time. There were moments, however, when she would let her guard slip and he would catch the tiredness in her eyes, especially when another piece of bad news arose about Maidstone. 

He’d taken seriously Mr. MacCarthy’s private words about her recent stretch of uncharacteristic quiet living, and had chalked most of it up to her missing him, whether she was willing to admit that or not. However, the series of emotional blows she’d experienced in the wake of the Maidstone murder seemed to have put her off balance and he would do whatever he could to help her sort it all out. 

He stroked her shoulder and kissed her cheek, but she didn’t wake up, she just sighed and smiled in her sleep. He was happy to let her sleep, but he was wide awake now. All the years of waking up early for work had trained his mind to be an early riser. Not that seven am was all that early, not for him anyway, but it was for her.

He slipped out of bed, used the restroom, and then opened his armoire. Mr. MacCarthy had done a superb job of arranging everything, so he easily found fresh drawers and pajamas, his robe and slippers. He collected their discarded clothing from the night before and laid it on a chair, forcing himself to leave work for Mr. MacCarthy. 

It would certainly take some getting used to, having a valet; he was used to taking care of his own wardrobe and other household chores. It would save him time while they were working on the case so that was a plus, but when the case was over and they were headed home… 

Home, he mused, sitting in a chair and gazing at Phryne in the bed. How that word had changed for him in just few short days. Until that first night with Phryne, home was a small bungalow in the Richmond suburbs of Melbourne he had once shared with Rosie. Now, he didn’t know if he could ever go back there. Not that Phryne would let him – he was sure she would insist they live together at her home in St. Kilda, and he was quite all right with that. He’d always felt comfortable and welcome there. 

Home was now so much more to him, however. Being with Phryne, wherever she was, that was home for him now. Whether it was at the Savoy, at Maidstone, or tooling around London and the English countryside, to look over and see her nearby, hear her talk and laugh, breathe in her French perfume, these were the things that told him he was truly home. If they returned to Melbourne, that would be fine, and if she wanted to move somewhere else one day, that would be fine, also. 

He needed to start formulating his plan for what he was going to do about his job when he returned. If things hadn’t worked out with Phryne, he had planned to put in for a transfer to a station far from City South, or even apply for a position as far away as Sydney. He wouldn’t have been able to be that close to the things that would remind him of her every day. 

Things had worked out quite well, though, and now he needed to start thinking about what they would be doing together. He did enjoy his job, at least the investigation and solving the crimes and helping his fellow citizens. He didn’t enjoy the politics, the dirty cops, the gruesome acts of bodily harm, and the pain and suffering he saw daily. He’d seen enough as a cop and a soldier to last several lifetimes, and he had been looking forward to this trip as a break from all of that.

Being with Phryne, however, usually meant there would be a murder to solve somewhere, and there was nothing more he loved than solving crimes with her. He knew she would want to continue her detective work, and he did, too, but he wasn’t sure if going back to how things had been in Melbourne was the only way to do that. He had an idea, but needed more time to think it through. 

He got up and dropped a soft kiss on Phryne’s head before letting himself out of the bedroom as quietly as possible. Mrs. MacCarthy was sitting at the dining table with some sewing and Mr. MacCarthy was reading the Times. 

“Ah, good morning, Inspector,” MacCarthy said. “Please sit down

“Good morning,” he replied. “No, don’t get up on my account,” he urged them.

“Tea, Inspector?” Mrs. MacCarthy asked.

“Yes, please,” Jack said. She filled a cup for him and slid the sugar and cream his way, as well as a plate of scones. 

“Mmm, don’t mind if I do,” Jack said, taking a scone. 

“Would you care to read the paper?” Mr. MacCarthy asked. “There’s a story about the murder.”

“Yes, I’d like to see that, thanks,” Jack said and MacCarthy handed him the front section with the news and pointed out the article on page three. 

“No Suspect in Gruesome Murder at Maidstone,” the headline read, and the slant of the article was a clear indictment on the police. Very few details about the case were included, for which Jack was thankful, but he did feel a renewed sense of urgency to get to the bottom of things.

“Someone at the Times isn’t a fan of Scotland Yard,” Jack commented. 

“No, and that’s typical,” MacCarthy replied. “As crime has risen, so as the animosity between the Times and the police.”

The phone rang and Mrs. MacCarthy answered it. “Inspector Robinson,” she said, holding her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Inspector Howard from Whitehall for Miss Fisher. Do you want to wake her or shall I?”

“I’ll take the call,” Jack said and went to the phone. “This is Inspector Robinson,” he said when he’d taken the handset. 

“Oh, Inspector,” Howard said. “I didn’t expect you to be at Miss Fisher’s so early.”

“She’s not awake yet,” Jack replied. “You can speak to me.”

Howard hesitated before relaying the reason for his call. “Have you seen the Times this morning?”

“I have actually, was just reading it.”

“Then I’m sure you understand my position.”

“Been in the same position many times myself,” Jack said. “We’re working as quickly as we can and following all leads.”

“Anything new since we talked yesterday?”

“It’s possible that Maidstone’s financial position was not a strong as previously assumed, but Miss Fisher is going to visit the investor today to find out more.”

“That’s a good lead,” Howard agreed. “Money is always a powerful motive. You don’t have to stop here today if it will slow you down. I’m grateful for your assistance and happy to let you two work on your own, but solving this case would buy some good will with the Times.”

“Understood,” Jack said. “And Howard?”

“Yes?”

“Anything new on your end? Is the toxicology report back yet?”

“I’m expecting that today, so if you want to call later, I should have something by mid-afternoon.” Jack thanked him and said goodbye.

“Well, we have our work cut out for us today,” Jack commented. “I suppose I better wake Miss Fisher.” He finished his tea in one gulp and let himself in to the bedroom. 

“Phryne,” Jack whispered, taking a knee beside the bed and lightly brushing her hair with his fingers. 

“Mmm, Jack,” she dragged out his name in a sleepy drawl but didn’t open her eyes. 

“Phryne, it’s time to wake up. We have a lot of work to do today,” he said, cajoling gently and rubbing her shoulder. 

“What time is it,” she asked. 

“About a quarter ‘til eight,” he said. 

She opened one eye and looked at him. “If the man trying to wake me up was not you, Jack Robinson, he would be on the receiving end of a black eye.”

“But it is me,” he smiled. “So what do I get?”

She reached out and traced her fingers from his jaw down his neck to his collar bone, letting them disappear under his pajamas. “Take off all those layers and I’ll show you,” she enticed. 

His skin sizzled where she’d touched him and he quickly disrobed. She peeled back the covers to let him in, still naked from the night before, and he slid in next to her, engulfing her in his arms. She escaped his embrace with a low throaty laugh and playfully pushed him back on the bed.

“Don’t move, Jack,” she instructed and gave him a sly smile. Starting at his collarbone, she trailed kisses across his chest and abdomen, and lower.

“Phryne,” he rasped, twitching with anticipation. 

“Say it again,” she said, her warm, wet lips connecting with their target. 

“Phryne,” Jack gulped. “Oh, god, Phryne…”

+++

“Phryne Fisher here,” she said, taking the phone call around nine-fifteen am. “Oh, hello, Marcus.”

“I’ve spoken with our silversmith this morning,” Marcus from the House of Garrard explained. “He does remember making a pin like the one you described. Will you be stopping by today to speak to him?”

“Excellent, Marcus,” she said. “Yes, I’ll be by soon.” She hung up the phone and turned to Jack. “I think we should split up this morning.”

“Okay, what’s your plan?” Jack asked.

“I need to run a couple errands that are in the general direction of the House of Garrard. That shouldn’t take too long, and then I’ll go over to Nigel’s office to discuss Maidstone’s finances. You can head for the General Registry Office which is less than a block away in Somerset House. I suspect you’ll be a while, so I’ll meet you there.”

“That sounds good,” Jack nodded. “Shall I take the ledger?”

“Yes, I’ll get it for you,” she said, disappearing into the bedroom again. Jack pretended not to stare as he enjoyed watching her walk. She’d let him choose her outfit again this morning, and he’d chosen a businesslike ensemble of a black skirt, gray and white printed blouse, and a long silver jacket made of lightweight silk that swished when she walked. She’d proudly pinned on the swallow brooch as well. 

She reappeared wearing her red wool coat and hat and carrying a flat, leather portfolio bag, not much bigger than the ledger. 

“I remembered I had this and thought it was just right to carry the ledger in,” she said, opening it to show Jack. “I’ve also included the notes from the information Mr. MacCarthy found yesterday, a notepad and some pencils for you.”

“Perfect, thank you,” he said. “If only all my constables at City South were as conscientious.”

“And that’s why you have me,” she said, then turned to the MacCarthys. “Mr. and Mrs. M, I have been remiss in not bringing you up to speed on a very important development,” she said.

“In the case?” Mr. MacCarthy said.

“No, between the Inspector and myself,” she slipped her hand around Jack’s bicep and they shared a small smile as Jack realized where she was headed. “We’re engaged.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Miss!” Mrs. MacCarthy crowed.

“Jolly good!” Mr. MacCarthy added. 

“Oh, my goodness, when is the wedding?” Mrs. MacCarthy asked.

“Well, that’s the thing,” Phryne began. “We’re kind of going the non-traditional route. We have decided to be committed partners for the rest of our lives, but we’re probably not going to ever get married in the traditional way.”

“Ohhh,” Mrs. MacCarthy sighed sadly. 

“It’s just easier to tell people we’re engaged until we figure out a better way to say it,” Phryne explained. 

“Well, jolly good just the same,” Mr. MacCarthy grinned, reaching out to shake their hands and giving Jack a wink and a pat on the shoulder. 

“Oh, yes, it’s simply wonderful, Miss, now that you have your man by your side forever.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without him,” Phryne said, giving Jack a warm smile, which he returned. “But I wanted you to know in case anyone says anything to you. And if anyone asks about a wedding date, just say it’s not been set yet.”

“I think we can manage that,” Mr. MacCarthy said. “Now you two go on and solve that murder so you can take a holiday to enjoy your engagement.”

“I’m actually supposed to be on holiday right now,” Jack said with a shrug and they all laughed. 

They said goodbye to the MacCarthys and headed for the lobby. It seemed more people stopped and stared at them this morning than had the evening before. Not that Phryne could blame them. Jack was certainly the most handsome man London had seen in decades, and his topcoat and fedora added an air of authority the others could only hope for. In addition to that, she knew the news of their engagement would have started to make the rounds, so it was natural folks would express curiosity. 

Once outside, Phryne called for the car to be brought around then explained to Jack that Somerset House was to the left in the next block. 

“I hope you find the information we’re looking for,” she said.

“That would be helpful,” Jack agreed. “And I hope you get some answers out of Baron Nigel.”

“I fully intend to,” she said as the Hispano pulled up and the young parking attendant hopped out and held the door for her. She handed him a few coins and thanked him while Jack took over door duty. “Be careful,” he said quietly.

“Jack, I’m going to a jewelry store and an investment firm. Not likely to be dangerous places.”

“Keep your wits about you, Phryne. The killer is still out there.” 

“You’re right, and you know I will.”

“And drive safely, too, if you think about it,” he teased.

“Spoil sport,” she joked, then Jack leaned in and kissed her briefly, a public display of affection in front of the busy hotel entrance that startled even Phryne. “You’re going to scandalize all of London, Jack Robinson.”

“I don’t care about London, I care about you,” he said, giving her that soul-deep gaze of his.

“My sentiments exactly,” she replied.

“I look forward to you rescuing me from the dreary depths of the Registry office,” he said, lightening the moment with his sarcasm. 

“Leave a trail of bread crumbs so I can find you,” she replied as she stepped in behind the wheel. Jack watched her drive off, then turned and headed for the imposing Somerset House, mentally preparing for a couple hours of intense research. 

+++

“I’d like to send a telegram,” Phryne said when she’d reached the telegraph counter. The post office had been her first stop. She gave the operator Dot Collins’ name and the address for her home in Melbourne and composed a few brief lines. 

“Jack arrived safe 2/13 STOP We’re engaged! Will write soon STOP Thank you all STOP Love, Miss Fisher.”

She didn’t mind spending the extra for the exclamation point, and handed over the payment with a smile. 

“Congratulations, Miss Fisher,” the telegraph man whispered as he read over her message. 

“Thank you, Ralph,” she smiled, knowing it was official now that she had notified her friends at home.

Home, she mused as she walked back to the motorcar. Yes, Melbourne was more her home than London, certainly. She hadn’t expected to become so attached when she’d resettled there a year and a half ago. It wasn’t the city itself, of course, although Melbourne was the kind of exciting place she liked, with lots of international influences. No, it was the people that she had become so attached to, the friends and employees who had become like family, and for the first time since she was a child she felt as if she belonged somewhere. 

Then there was Jack; her Man With A Plan. His quiet, steady, and sturdy support had worked on her heart in such a way that she couldn’t imagine her life without him. He had offered his heart to her long before she’d even realized it, until one simple touch had thrown open the windows and shone a light on the gift that had been there all along. 

Jack was where her heart turned when she thought of home. All those hours flying over the varied landscapes of Australia, Asia, India, the Middle East, and Europe had given her ample opportunity to think, and she’d thought about Jack a lot. The more she thought about him, especially the private moments where he’d shown her his feelings, the more she realized just how blind she’d been, and how strong her defenses were against the sincere attentions of an honorable man. 

She’d hoped he would come after her, as she’d challenged him to do, but as the weeks went by and she didn’t hear from him, she began to doubt. So she started to write to him about her adventures in crime solving for the overworked Scotland Yard, hoping that would generate a response of some sort. She didn’t dare share her feelings, however, as she didn’t trust them. The last time she’d loved a man, really loved him, she’d experienced a devastating loss, and she didn’t want to admit to loving another, for fear of losing him, too. 

Finally, she’d received a reply, and then another, three letters in all, detailing his current cases, and including tidbits of news he thought she’d appreciate. She cherished those letters, but his lack of any further declarations of feelings saddened her. She didn’t want to stay in London forever, but she couldn’t go back to Melbourne if Jack had lost interest. She continued to write to him, telling him stories as if he were in the room with her, sharing one of their nightcaps, and drinking enough for the both of them. 

“Tell him, Phryne,” had been the wise and insistent voice of Mac in her head. “Tell him you love him. It’s so obvious he loves you.” But she could never manage to form the words in her letters. Then one day, she received a letter from Dot, informing her that “the Inspector wanted to let you know that he is going undercover for an extended period of time and will not be able to engage in outside correspondence. He will contact you when his assignment is over.” 

To Phryne’s troubled psyche, that sounded like Jack didn’t want to hear from her anymore. The news had been a serious blow, especially as it was delivered by a third party. She responded with a long night of drowning her sorrows in Jack’s favorite whiskey, and a day-long hangover afterward. The day after that, she pulled herself together, toughened her skin, and decided to dive back into London society, channeling her energy into having the most fun and excitement she could and not caring about anything anymore. And the first party on the agenda was the Policeman’s Ball. 

Then suddenly, there he was, appearing out of nowhere to sweep her off her feet, his voice and his touch instantly focusing her mind on the one word that described everything Jack was to her: Home. She had fought with all her might to keep from bursting into tears of relief right there on the dance floor, while he simultaneously waltzed all reason from her head. She no longer needed to wonder where she would have to go to find a home; Home had come to her in the form of Jack Robinson, and it was the most extraordinary experience she’d ever had. 

She pulled up into the same parking space in front of the House of Garrard that she and Jack and used yesterday, and considered it a good omen. Marcus was waiting for her behind the counter when she entered the store. 

“Ah, Miss Fisher, welcome back,” Marcus said, taking her hand and bowing over it. 

“Thank you, Marcus.”

“Come back to my office and we’ll talk to my silversmith there,” Marcus said. He lifted a section of counter to let Phryne pass through and led her through a door and down a hallway to one of several offices. “Wait here while I call him.” Marcus offered her a chair then left the room. 

Phryne couldn’t help but look around, taking note of the photos of Garrard jewels on the heads, necks, ears, wrists, and fingers of various members of the royal family. There were certificates of gratitude from the monarchy, and framed letters of thanks from various celebrities. Bookshelves were filled with reference materials on all sorts of jewelry-making topics, from metallurgy to design. Silver trophy cups and iron molds served as bookends. 

“Here we are,” Marcus said, bringing an older man along with him. “Robert, this is Miss Phryne Fisher. Miss Fisher, this is our head silversmith, Robert Paisley. His family in Dublin is descended from the original silversmiths who organized the first Irish smiths into a guild in the fifteenth century.”

“Quite the ancestry, Mr. Paisley,” Phryne said, and offered her hand to shake. Robert wiped his on his apron and shook with her. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss,” Robert said. 

“Let’s sit down, shall we?” Marcus encouraged and they each took a seat, with Marcus behind his desk. “Now, Miss Fisher, explain to Robert what you’re looking for.”

“I’m trying to find a man who was seen wearing a pin in the shape of a mill rind on his overcoat,” she began. “I didn’t see it myself, but someone who did drew a picture of it.” She reached in her bag and took out Jack’s notebook, turned to the page with the drawing and showed it to Robert. 

“I recognize that,” he said. “Most mill rind designs have curled, pointed ends. But I remember this bloke wanted the ends more squared off, so it would look manlier, he said.” He handed the book back to Phryne who took out a pencil to make note of their conversation.

“How long ago was this?”

“About three years ago, I think.”

“I know you can’t disclose his name,” Phryne said, glancing at Marcus who gave her a small shake of his head to confirm, “but can you describe him?”

“Middle aged, about forty I’d guess. About average height, had a bit of a limp – he said it was from the war – dark hair and round dark eyes.”

“Any other distinguishing features?” Phryne pressed. “A scar maybe?”

“You know, he did have a scar, behind his ear and down his neck. I wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t turned around in his chair while we were talking. It’s kind of hidden in his hair,” Robert explained. “Also, his nose looks like it had been broken, too.”

“Did he say anything that would give you any insight into why he wanted the pin?”

“He said it was part of his family crest, but wouldn’t say what the name was. Said something about the men in his family getting parts of the family crest as tattoos, but he didn’t want to do that so he ordered the pin instead.” 

“Have you done other mill rind pins? What about the other silversmiths here?”

“No, that was the only one we could find record of at House of Garrard,” Marcus chimed in.

“What about other jewelers? Have you heard of any other smiths creating a bespoke piece like that?”

“I can ask some of my chums who are smiths for other houses,” Robert offered.

“That would be great if you have the time,” Phryne said. “Last question. Was the customer pleased with the pin and did he intend to wear it himself?”

“Yes, he was very happy with it,” Robert said. “I heard he put it on his coat before he walked out the door.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Paisley,” Phryne said, standing up. “You’ve been most helpful.”

Marcus escorted her back out to the front of the store. “Thank you for arranging for me to speak to Mr. Paisley,” she said.

“My pleasure, my dear,” he said, then spoke in a low voice. “May I ask what this case is about that you’re working on?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss, Marcus, you know that,” she said. “But why do you ask?”

“Well, a mill rind is actually more common in a family crest than most people realize, but there are usually other emblems imposed on top of it. Having one or more recognizable mill rinds shown in a crest is rare, and rarer still that someone wants to emphasize it.”

“Right,” Phryne agreed. “People are more likely to gravitate to a lion or eagle or horse. Something strong or powerful.”

“But being industrious is powerful, too,” Marcus advised. “A king can’t lead his army into battle without a miller grinding wheat into flour so his army can eat.”

“I see,” she mused. “So why would someone want to emphasize that?”

“Maybe there’s a connection to food preparation, or maybe this person is the type to hang back from the action and feed supplies to the leader. Symbolically, of course.”

“Or literally,” Phryne said, a wisp of a connection forming in her head, but she wasn’t able to put her finger on it. She still had the notebook in her hand, so she jotted down what Marcus had said, and hopefully it would mean something later. 

When she glanced up, she realized they were standing where Jack had been standing yesterday, looking down at the rings in the jewelry case. She was drawn to the glittering stones and glinting gold and she turned toward the case to see what Jack had seen. No wonder he’d looked glum; there was nothing in that case he could have afforded on a detective’s salary. 

“Marcus,” she turned to see that he’d come to stand next to her, quietly waiting for her to ask his assistance. “Do you happen to have plain gold bands?”

“You mean wedding bands?”

“Yes,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. 

“Right over here, Miss Fisher,” Marcus said, leading her down the row of cases about ten feet. “We have gold, silver, and platinum, in both men’s and women’s styles.”

Phryne glanced down into the case and subtly laid her left hand out flat to imagine one of those gold bands on her ring finger. A ripple of emotion washed over her and she swallowed it back. In that moment, she looked up at the wall of mirrors behind the case and wondered who was that woman standing there in her skin, wanting to wear a wedding band. 

“Miss Fisher,” Marcus probed gently. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, of course, Marcus, of course.” She squared her shoulders and collected herself. 

“Is there a reason you wanted to look at these particular rings?”

“Well, I,” she began. “I was just curious,” she said with finality.

“You know, after you and the inspector left yesterday, I was near the front of the store and saw you two talking outside,” Marcus explained, and her head swiveled toward him quickly. “I saw you two kissing,” he whispered with a conspiratorial smile. 

“The Inspector and I are engaged, in a non-traditional sense,” she explained.

“I see,” Marcus nodded. “Just remember, Miss Fisher: it’s not the cost of a ring that makes it valuable. It’s the value of the person giving it that matters.” 

“Marcus, you are wise beyond your years,” she smiled, placing a hand on his arm.

“I’ve seen a lot of things in this store, Miss Fisher. I’ve helped hundreds of couples select rings while they tell me their stories. Whatever story you and the Inspector share, you will find the perfect rings to tell that story.”

She thanked him again and exited the store, with far more to think about than mill rinds and murderers. 

+++


	14. Chapter 14

It had taken Jack fifteen minutes of explaining before the cheerful, but strict young desk clerk with the curly red hair had agreed to help him. Since he wasn’t family, she needed more identification before she would let him through. He explained he was assisting Inspector Howard at Scotland Yard, and she had called Whitehall to confirm, but Howard wasn’t at his desk. Jack showed her his Victoria Police Force credentials, hoping that would provide enough authority. That led down a rabbit trail of her asking questions about Australia, and Jack trying to re-route the conversation back to the topic of letting him into the archives, until finally he resorted to the last tool in his kit: he flirted with her.

“You know,” he began, leaning lazily on the counter and glancing sideways at her, “if you ever do make it to Melbourne, I’d be happy to show you around.” 

“Would you now,” she said, leaning on the counter as well and placing herself just within the edge of his personal space. “Would that be in a police motorcar with the lights and sirens?”

“That depends. Do you plan on committing a crime while you’re there, Miss…,” he glanced down at her nametag and slowly back up at her face. “Tyndale?” he said, thankful that each clerk had his or her own section of the counter with privacy dividers between them. 

“Call me Millie,” she cooed, leaning just a little closer. “Would you have to clap me in irons as well?”

“I could probably make that happen, Millie,” he replied, lowering his voice and trying mightily not to think about a bit of banter he and Phryne once had about handcuffs. “But only if you help me out today and show me where to start my research.”

“You have a deal, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson,” she said, fanning herself slightly with his credentials before handing them back to him. It was a classic Phryne mannerism and guilt twisted his gut. He swallowed hard and regained his formal composure while Millie handled some paperwork behind the counter. If he were Catholic, he’d be taking himself to confession for his subterfuge as soon as possible. 

“Sign here,” she said, pushing a ledger toward him where she marked the date and time of his arrival and the location he requested. Jack signed and slid the book back to her, then she came out from behind the counter to escort him into the stacks. 

“So tell me again what you’re looking for?” Millie asked. “County Kent birth records for what years?

“Anything from 1850 through 1900,” Jack said.”

“That’s a lot of years,” Millie commented. 

“Maybe I should have brought a lunch,” Jack said wryly as Millie pushed open a door to one of the long hallways containing the records. The room was over two stories tall, and as long as a footy pitch. Tall wooden bookshelves, seeming to reach the ceiling, were packed with books and boxes and other forms of memorabilia and information. Tall rolling step ladders were lined up along one wall, and some were scattered among the stacks. Rows of tables and chairs were lined up along the other wall. Daunting was the word that came to Jack’s mind. 

“Here you go,” Millie said, stopping at the end of one shelf. The card in the frame on the end read “County Kent, Births, 1850 – 1860.” “Just keep moving that way to go further along in time,” she pointed further down the long room. “Cities and towns are in alphabetical order from left to right, top to bottom. And if you need any assistance,” she stepped up close to Jack, glanced down then back up at him through her eyelashes. “You can use one of the phones on the wall to call me at the front desk, and I’ll hurry to your aid.” 

She was so close, her chest was almost touching his, and he was regretting the decision to use flirtation to advance his cause. Phryne’s methods were starting to rub off on him, but she was also giving him the evil eye in the back of his mind for even daring to favor another woman with his attentions, fictitious though they may be. 

“Thank you, Miss Tyndale,” he said, sticking to formalities. “Although I hope I won’t have to take you away from your duties at the counter.”

“It’s Millie,” she reminded him, then gave him a pretty pout. “And what happened to Inspector “show me around” Robinson? He was more fun,” she winked. 

“I just have a lot of research to get to,” he sighed. “I apologize for taking the liberty of informalities.”

“Don’t worry,” she confided in a quiet voice and stepped back. “I know you were flirting with me and I know you don’t mean anything by it. It was really nice for a change. Most people come in here in a hurry, and they’re not very nice about what they need. Thank you for being friendly.” 

Jack relaxed and empathized with her. “No worries, Miss Tyndale. And I do appreciate your help.” 

“You’re more than welcome, Inspector.”

“I do have one more question,” he said and she nodded for him to go on. “Do you remember helping anyone else find information in this same time frame for the same area?”

“We get a lot of people in here, Inspector, I don’t know that I would remember any one person.”

“Older man, probably dressed in a more rural style,” Jack continued. “Large, round eyes, a cantankerous sort, possibly mumbling about an inheritance. Last name Loddington.” 

“Hmm,” she said, rubbing her chin. “I remember someone like that, but he was researching in the marriages section which is on the other side of the building. Although if he came in on a day I wasn’t working, he may have been in here, too.”

“Would you mind taking a look at the guest registry for me if you have time? Name is Loddington, and he may have been here several times in the last few months.”

“Loddington,” Millie mused. “Isn’t that the name of the man who was murdered at Maidstone House the other day?”

“It’s the same name,” Jack said. “But that’s all I can say.”

“I understand,” she nodded. “We read the papers here every day before we archive them, and you can’t work here without remembering random details,” she admitted. “I’ll be happy to look up that guest registry information and jot it down for you.”

“And one more thing,” he said before she turned to go. “My associate, a Miss Fisher, will be meeting me here later to help with my research, so if you could show her where I’ll be, that would be appreciated.”

“Be happy to, Inspector.”

“Thank you,” Jack said and she nodded and left. He stared up at the bookshelf, at least twelve feet tall, and wondered how he had gotten himself into this. The proverbial needle was somewhere in this field of proverbial haystacks and he needed to find it. 

“Good old fashioned police work,” he sighed as he walked between the stacks. At least “Maidstone” was in the middle of the alphabet, making it about shoulder-height on the shelf. He found a book with “Maidstone” embossed on the spine and pulled it down and took it to the table. The sound of the chair scraping the hard tiled floor only depressed him further. He set the leather folio down on the table next to the book, took off his hat and coat and dug in. 

+++

Phryne steered the Hispano into a space close to the entrance of Selfridges Department Store on Oxford Street. The large store with its enormous selection of goods and self-service shopping fascinated and delighted her, and on a normal day, she could easily spend a few hours browsing and buying. Today, however, she was on a mission to find the perfect birthday gift for Chauncey’s wife. 

She browsed the lingerie, gloves, parasols and purses, but ended up in the bath products aisle instead. She chose a selection of French milled soaps, along with powders and lotions, all in a heavenly lavender scent. She added two fluffy towels and a box of Swiss chocolates, and requested the sales girl box everything up together and put it all on Chauncey’s account. Then she used one of the store phones to call Chauncey to let him know what he’d purchased, and that he could pick it up on his way home. 

Errand complete, she forced herself not to linger over the silk hosiery and Italian leather shoes on her way out. That would have to wait for another day. She gritted her teeth as she ginned up her motivation for her next stop. 

“Hello, Nigel,” Phryne said when she was shown into his well-appointed, second floor office at Hastings, Bassett, Partridge & Bolsover, Fiduciary Partners, Ltd. 

“Miss Phryne Fisher,” Nigel oozed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Business, not pleasure, Nigel,” she said. She didn’t dislike Nigel completely, but she wasn’t going to be any chummier than necessary. 

“May I offer you a drink?” he asked.

“Why not,” she said. Even at eleven in the morning it wouldn’t hurt to have something to take the edge off while trying to gather the information she needed. Nigel poured them whiskey from a decanter and handed her a glass. 

“Please sit down,” he said, indicating a pair of chairs in a corner with a small table between them. Phryne hung her bag over the back of the chair, and a butler, appearing out of nowhere, took her hat and coat. 

“I was just about to have a small bite to eat. Can I offer you something?” Nigel said, while the butler moved silently behind them, setting a tray of sandwiches on the table. “Harbell, bring out those cheese and crackers as well,” Nigel said to the bespectacled man, who nodded and shuffled off, disappearing through a side door. “I have a luncheon at one and breakfast was a long time ago,” he explained. 

“Thank you, Nigel, but I didn’t come here to eat,” she said. “But you go ahead.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Nigel said, chomping a sandwich. “So, why are you here, Phryne?”

“I need to speak to you about the financial position of Maidstone,” she said, ignoring his informality with her name. 

“Oh, that is business, isn’t it. What a dull topic for such a lovely lady,” Nigel said, his voice verging on sarcastic.

“It’s not dull when I find out that my family estate is losing money. I’ve come to find out why and how it was allowed to do so,” she replied. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Where are you getting your information?” he asked, a flash of defensive anger in his eyes was quickly squashed. 

“I don’t have to reveal my sources, but I would like to see the books,” she said. 

“I can’t imagine such complicated information would make any sense to a lady such as yourself,” Nigel hid his sneer behind a patronizing smile. “Besides, you’re not considered one of the investors on the account, so I cannot allow you access.”

“Who are the investors?” she asked, deciding not to contest his opinion of her intelligence.

“Your father and, well, your father.”

“My father and who, Nigel?”

“That’s privileged information,” he stated. “I can’t tell you any more than that.”

“My family estate is in financial straits and my father is incapable of making wise investments, which is why he entrusted the finances to your father’s company,” Phryne said. “How did it end up in such a precarious position?”

“I can’t tell you anything because you’re not listed on that account, Phryne. That’s just the way it is.”

Phryne’s anger was simmering closer to the surface than she wanted it to. Any time something involving money and her father were at hand, it was usually bad news for her father, and he was usually his own worst enemy. It infuriated her, but she kept her mouth shut and took action instead. 

She went to Nigel’s desk and picked up the phone.

“Who are you calling?” Nigel asked.

She ignored him. “I’d like to place a call to Maidstone House, County Kent, L-625,” she said into the speaker. Nigel sighed in exasperation.

“Hello, Smythe, it’s Phryne. Is my father there?... Yes, I’d like to speak to him… Hello, father… Yes, I’m here with Nigel Bolsover, the one who manages your investments… Yes, something’s come up with the Maidstone accounts, and I need you to give him permission to show me, since I’m not listed as an investor on the account… Thank you, here he is.” Phryne held the phone out and Nigel got up to take it. 

“Baron Fisher, how are you, sir?” Nigel winced as Baron Fisher barked in his ear over the phone. Phryne couldn’t understand the words, but she was pleased that her father had the sense to be upset. “Well, y-yes, I’d be happy to share that information with your daughter,” Nigel swallowed his pride as he took instructions from his client. “All of it, yes, sir… And your personal accounts, too? Of course… Yes, I’ll have the papers drawn up right away… Today, yes, today… Yes, sir… Of course, sir… Good day, sir.”

Nigel handed the phone back to Phryne. “He wants to speak with you again.”

“Yes?” she said, taking the phone.

“Phryne, what is going on,” Henry asked her. “We didn’t receive the last two quarterly interest payouts from the Maidstone accounts. I was going to mention it, but didn’t want to worry you.”

“I’ll find out what I can and we’ll discuss it over dinner tonight,” she said, looking over at Nigel who, by now, had dropped the attitude and was sufficiently chastened. She said her goodbyes and hung up. 

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it, Nigel?” she said. “Now let’s have a look at those books.”

+++

Jack stood up to stretch and rub his neck. He’d been digging for two hours, had covered about thirty years of births, and hadn’t found anything resembling an illegitimate Liddell in any of the records for Maidstone, Linton, Aylesford, or any of the other small hamlets surrounding Maidstone House. There had to be another way. If there even was an illegitimate child. He sighed at the thought that all his research would have been in vain. 

He did find much of the same information that Loddington had found, births of legitimate heirs, many of whom were included in the ledger, but that was only confirming what they already knew. He also found a hand-drawn map of Maidstone that showed more property than was currently part of the estate. He copied the sketch, including all the pertinent landmarks and roads, in order to compare it to the current boundaries. From what he could tell, around 1885, the acreage that is now Loddington’s orchard was once part of Maidstone. 

He flipped through the pages of documents from the valise that Phryne had included with the ledger and tried to remember every detail of the conversation they’d had with the MacCarthy’s last night. He knew the year 1850 was the key, because that’s when an unmarried Alexander was disinherited at age twenty-three. If there were any illegitimate children, they could have been born five to seven years prior to the disinheritance, possibly precipitating Baron Liddell’s drastic actions.

“Ugh,” he groaned at the thought of having to go backwards from 1850, even if only for a few years. Something was missing. A small fact that would help him narrow his search. He flipped through the pages again, reading the terms of the will carefully. 

“That’s it!” he said, pointing to the page. “The townhouse in Chelsea. He would have moved there after being cut off. But Chelsea is… Ugh,” he groaned again. “A suburb of London. Great, I’ve been in the wrong part of the country this whole time.” He mumbled a bit more about losing his touch and having to pack up and start over. 

He placed the last book he’d been perusing on the rolling cart at the end of the aisle with the other books he’d removed, collected his things and headed back out to the front desk. 

“Ah, Inspector, did you find what you were looking for?” Millie said when he approached her section of the counter. 

“No, it appears I was in the wrong part of the country entirely. Do you have time to show me where I might find any birth records for the area around Chelsea for the same time period?”

“And you thought County Kent had a lot of shelves,” she said with a friendly smirk. 

“I was afraid of that.”

“Oh, and I have that information you asked about,” she said and slid him a folded piece of paper. Inside was a list of all the dates and times Reginald Loddington had visited the GRO, and the sections he had been in. 

“Excellent, thank you, Miss Tyndale,” Jack said, feeling a smile form for the first time in hours. 

“You’re welcome,” she said and came out from behind the counter. “Now, follow me to your next torture chamber,” she bantered, and led him in the complete opposite direction. 

+++

Nigel took a set of keys out of his pocket and went to a row of filing cabinets. He unlocked the first cabinet and pulled open the second drawer from the bottom. Flipping through he found the folio for Maidstone, took it out and handed it to Phryne. 

“Do you want Baron Fisher’s personal account as well?” He asked.

“No, just Maidstone for now,” she said. 

“You can sit at that table by the window and look over it all you want, though I doubt you’ll be able to understand the complicated world of finance,” he scoffed, his sneer returning. “I’ll have my secretary start the paperwork to have you added as a signer and investor on the accounts.” He left to speak to his secretary, leaving Phryne alone in the office. 

Not one to waste an opportunity to sleuth, especially when provoked, Phryne poked around Nigel’s desk. A photo caught her eye of Nigel and a woman, standing chastely side by side, but the woman was looking up at Nigel with adoring eyes. Phryne didn’t know what any woman would see in Nigel, but to each her own. She tipped the frame sideways as she was putting it back on the desk and heard something slide behind the glass. Looking at the photo again, it had shifted, and there was another photo behind it. 

Phryne quickly undid the back of the frame and took out both photos. The hidden one was much more interesting. It showed Nigel and another man, seated in a snappy little rowboat tied to a small dock, and both were sharply dressed in sweater vests and boaters. The other man was leaning against Nigel, and Nigel was looking at him the way the woman in the other photo was looking at Nigel. She made mental note of both the woman’s and the other man’s features before she put the photos away. She didn’t care who Nigel loved, but it was helpful to know his secrets.

She took a notepad and pen off Nigel’s desk and sat down with the folio. Inside were all sorts of papers documenting the buying and selling of assets that were, as Loddington had noted, mostly American, and many speculative investments at that. Phryne had paid attention to the wild stock market rise in both Britain and America over the last few years, and had been tempted a few times to buy some American shares. But her financial advisors, in both London and Melbourne, had advised against it, noting that much of the investing was being done on credit, a sure-fire disaster waiting to happen. 

A small market crash had occurred in London back in September, but that was based on fraud and corruption, not bad investments, so she hadn’t been worried then. When the news of the New York Stock Exchange crash broke in London in late October, she was relieved for herself, but she knew many of her friends and acquaintances would be negatively affected. She hadn’t expected a well-established and successful investment house like Hastings, Basset, Partridge & Bolsover to be swayed by the overindulgence in America. 

She flipped pages back in time to find the point where the investments had changed. From what she could tell, it was in the middle of 1926 that rock solid investments, such as the Cape to Cairo Railway in Africa, were sold off to purchase stock in American companies and utilities. Over the next year, well into 1927, the majority of Maidstone’s investments had been transferred to listings on the New York Stock Exchange. 

The last few documents, from the last few months, reported significant declines in value of the investments, and there was no record of the firm attempting to sell off. Maidstone was saddled with thousands of shares in failing companies and no way to recoup the losses. Some of the companies had already dissolved or gone bankrupt, making the shares obsolete. All told, Phryne estimated it was roughly an eighty-percent loss of value. 

She sat back and sighed, angry and frustrated. 

“Tea, Miss?” the butler asked quietly, but Phryne jumped in her chair.

“Oh!” she turned to him. “You startled me.”

“I’m so sorry, Miss,” he said, head bowed, shoulders slightly hunched.

“No, it’s quite all right. I would love some tea, thank you. What was your name again?”

“Harbell, Miss.”

“Thank you, Harbell,” she said. The clock chimed the hour and she swiveled to look at the clock on the mantle. “Oh, my. I had no idea I’d been here so long,” she said, rubbing her stiff neck. “Where is Mr. Bolsover?”

“He had to attend to some business downstairs, Miss,” Harbell said, shuffling back in with a tea tray.

“Let me get that,” she said, noting his infirmity. 

“It’s quite all right, Miss. Old war injury. I’m quite used to it by now.” He smiled kindly at her and she accepted the cup of tea he offered. 

“Have you worked here long?” she asked him, attempting some small talk as a distraction from the depressing numbers on the pages in front of her.

“A couple of years, Miss,” he said. “It was hard to find good work after the war, especially with my injury, but the Baron hired me to work here during business hours. Not long after that, his son had to fire his valet. I think the young man was just not experienced enough for someone with as much standing as Mr. Bolsover. So he hired me to work at his home a couple nights a week as well.”

“Sounds like you’ve found a good situation,” she commented.

“Yes, Miss. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make the rounds to the other offices.” He shuffled out and Phryne went back to the papers in the folio. She went back over the selling and buying of shares one more time, looking for some clue she may have missed that would give her an idea of why. The numbers blurred as her frustration grew, but it was then she noticed it. In the bottom corner of each document was a signature, an “NB” with squiggle after it. Nigel Bolsover. Maidstone’s decline began with Nigel’s oversight. But why? Was it Nigel’s inexperience as an investor, or was it intentional? And why do nothing to solidify Maidstone’s position after the crash? Why damage his own ability to make a commission?

“Finding everything you need, Miss Fisher?” Nigel said, returning to the office a few moments later as she was returning the papers to the folio.

“I’m not sure,” she said, handing the folio back to him and pretending to be confused. “It’s all a lot of numbers, isn’t it?”

“It is. It’s a difficult thing for women to comprehend. I could try to explain, but I don’t know that I could make it simple enough for you. Women’s brains just aren’t suited for finance.”

“Hmm, maybe so,” she mused. 

“You should have taken me up on my offer of marriage right after the war,” Nigel said with greasy charm. “Combining the Bolsover finances and the Fisher land holdings would make both of us fabulously wealthy. In fact, the offer has never been taken off the table.”

“I’m already fabulously wealthy, Nigel, precisely because my investments are not through your firm. A marriage of convenience is the last thing I need.”

“You’re not concerned about losing Maidstone?” Nigel asked. “The current financial state of the property makes it ripe for a takeover by an ambitious developer.”

“Are you implying that marrying you would solve Maidstone’s financial problems?”

“Only in the sense that the Bolsover resources would keep Maidstone afloat until the economy recovers.”

“And then I could divorce you and take a fully recovered Maidstone with me?” she asked archly, knowing that was not at all what Nigel would want to hear.

“You don’t want to be a divorced woman, Phryne,” Nigel said. “You would only make yourself a pariah, like Wallis Sampson.”

“I’ll never be a divorced woman, Nigel, because I’ll never be married,” she stated, a twinge gripped her heart as her commitment to Jack resurfaced in her mind. She didn’t need a piece of paper to consider herself fully committed to him heart and soul. She needed to extricate herself from Nigel and see Jack as soon as possible.

“Your loss, Phryne,” Nigel sneered, but Phryne had moved on to another topic.

“May I ask you a question?” she said.

“Go right ahead,” he replied.  
“Did you know anyone called Reginald Loddington?”

“Loddington?” Nigel’s head swiveled to look at her in surprise, but quickly morphed into disinterest. “Isn’t that the poor chap that was gutted in the woods at Maidstone the other day?”

“It is. Did you know him?” she pressed, sensing his hesitancy. 

“Why are you asking me?”

“Well, you are the manager of Maidstone’s finances,” she said. “And because your business card was found in one of the last places he was seen before he died”. A movement to her left caught her eye, and she glanced to see the butler, Harbell, peering through a crack in the door to the service pantry next to the office, eavesdropping.

“What place?” 

“I’m not at liberty to say,” she replied. “But it was in a location not known to have wealthy investors who might need your services. My guess is Loddington picked it up in London on a visit here. Was he ever in your office?”

“I can’t discuss anything regarding other clients,” Nigel squared his shoulders, as he was back on familiar territory. “We’ve already been through that, Miss Fisher.”

“I don’t believe he was a client, I believe he was here for another reason,” she said. “But, I won’t bother you about it any further today.” She gathered her coat and hat from the rack and her bag from the back of the chair. She noticed that her whiskey glass was gone from the small table near where she’d been sitting earlier, but Nigel’s was still there. She glanced across the room to see if she’d left it on the table where she’d been looking at the files, or on Nigel’s desk, but didn’t see it anywhere. 

“That’s strange…” she mused aloud. 

“What is?” Nigel asked. 

“Nothing,” she shook the thought out of her head and reached out to shake Nigel’s hand. “Thank you for your time, Nigel,” she said. “I may be back if I have more questions.”

“My secretary can make you an appointment for a future visit,” he instructed curtly as he showed her out. “She also has the paperwork you’ll be needing.”

“Good day, then,” she said, keeping a polite façade. No need to burn any bridges yet. She stopped at the secretary’s desk and picked up the envelope with her name on it, thanked her and turned toward the door. 

A blonde woman strode by her and almost bumped into Phryne as she passed. Phryne recognized her from the photo on Nigel’s desk, and paused in front of a mirror on the wall to check her makeup before turning toward the stairs. The woman ignored Nigel’s secretary and headed for Nigel’s office door.

“Miss Partridge, you can’t just go in there without letting Mr. Bolsover know you’re coming,” the secretary protested.

“Of course I can. I’m his fiancée’,” the woman stated. Phryne tried to hide the shocked expression on her face by pretending to reapply her lipstick. 

“Miss Partridge,” the secretary protested, but was unable to keep the woman from barging into Nigel’s office. Phryne could hear the beginning of an argument, but couldn’t understand the words. The door slammed shut in the secretary’s face, and she sighed and returned to her desk.

Phryne turned and made her way outside and to the car. She needed to get to the GRO and rescue Jack before he got lost or gave up on her. 

Before she started up the Hispano, she took out the notepad Nigel had given her and jotted down some of the things she remembered. The photos on Nigel’s desk, the appearance of Miss Partridge and her argument with Nigel, notes about Harbell the butler, her missing whiskey glass, and Nigel’s hesitancy to discuss Loddington or how his business card came to be associated with Loddington’s murder. Satisfied she had cleared all the information from her brain, she started up the motorcar and headed for the GRO. Maybe Jack’s attention to detail was rubbing off on her, she thought as she drove. It was a surprising thought, but a nice one just the same. 

+++

“Hello, I hope you can help me,” Phryne said when she approached the information desk in the Registry office lobby. 

“I’ll try,” said the weary-looking older woman behind the counter. Phryne forced herself to be pleasant. 

“I’m meeting someone here who is doing some research. He would have come in over two hours ago. Last name Robinson.” She didn’t know if Jack would use his official title, but he would have at least used his last name. 

“Millie,” the woman said, leaning back and looking to her left. “Didn’t you help a chap named Robinson earlier?”

“I did,” Millie called back. “I can help you here, Miss,” she said and waved Phryne around to her section of the desk. 

“You’re looking for Inspector Robinson?” Millie asked when Phryne stepped up to her section of the counter. 

“Yes, I am.”

“What’s your name, Miss?” Millie asked as she started filling out the paperwork. 

“Phryne Fisher.”

“He said to keep a lookout for you,” Millie said with a smile, a strand of her auburn curls bouncing alongside her porcelain cheek. “I hope you plan to rescue him from his drudgery, Miss. He was looking out of sorts last time I saw him, poor fellow.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had to show him to different room about half an hour ago. He’d been looking in the wrong place for almost two hours and he was a little frustrated.” 

“I see. So where is he?”

“If you’ll just sign the book here, Miss Fisher, I’ll take you to him.” Phryne signed and waited for Millie to come around from behind the counter. “This way,” she said cheerfully, and Phryne followed. 

Phryne knew the General Registry Office was big, but she had never been inside and was awed by the long, two-story hall filled with row upon row of shelves. Their heels clicked on the hard tile floor and echoed all around them. 

After walking for most of the length of the room, Millie slowed. “He should be right around here,” she mused as she peeked between the stacks. “Ah! There you are, Inspector.” 

“Just a moment, Miss Tyndale,” he said from the top of a tall ladder, but not looking down. He was reaching for a book, and the ladder shook when he moved, and Phryne was suddenly concerned for his safety. 

“Jack, be careful,” she called. 

“Ah, Miss Fisher,” he said, tucking the book under his arm and negotiating the ladder with athletic ease. “A sight for sore eyes,” he smiled when his feet hit the floor. He had removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie, his sleeves were rolled up, and a section of his hair was falling across his forehead, but he seemed chipper enough. 

“Thank you for showing Miss Fisher back here, Miss Tyndale,” he said. 

“You’re welcome, Inspector,” Millie smiled. “And you’re looking a lot happier now than you did last time I saw you.”

“I think I’ve found what I’m looking for,” he said. “The needle in the haystack has revealed itself.”

“That’s great news, Jack,” Phryne said, watching his interaction with Millie closely. 

“That is great news, Inspector,” Millie agreed. “You’re one of the lucky few.”

“I just want to double check some information and then I think we can go get some lunch,” he said to Phryne.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Millie said and disappeared around the end of the row. 

“You’ve been busy,” Phryne commented, taking in Jack’s delightfully disheveled state and the stack of books and notes on the table nearby.

“I spent way too long in County Kent before I remembered that Alexander was banished to the house in Chelsea,” Jack began, bringing over an additional chair for Phryne. “The date on the card we found at the Fox Den was the date Alexander was banished, not a birth or death date.”

“How did you figure that out?” Phryne asked, enjoying his state of animation. 

“Right here,” he said, reaching for a book across the table that was laying open. “A. J. Liddell arrived Somerset House, Chelsea, 10 May, 1850.”

“What book is this?” she asked, turning it over.

“Birth records for Chelsea from 1850. Read the section above.”

“Born 5 August, 1850, Lawrence James Liddell, 8th Baron of Aylesford,” Phryne read aloud. “Mother Lady Antonia Hunter of Chiddingstone, County Kent. Father Alexander James Liddell, 7th Baron of Aylesford, Maidstone House. A.J. Liddell arrived Somerset House, Chelsea, 10 May, 1850.” She looked up at Jack. “Chiddingstone Castle was at one time the seat of the Viscount of Sydney. If Lady Antonia was the daughter of a viscount, why would she have a child with a banished baron?”

“Look at the birthdate,” Jack pointed out. “Only three months after Alexander was banished.”

“Oohh…” Phryne nodded. “The illegitimate child. Well, that wasn’t usually grounds for disinheritance, even among the Victorians. If both the parents were gentry, the children were cared for but otherwise ignored in any inheritances.”

“So then why was Alexander banished?” Jack asked. 

“Did you find out any more about Lady Antonia?”

“That’s why I got down this last book,” he said, opening it and flipping through. “This is a record of Chelsea’s midwives from the same period. Usually more detailed.” He turned until he found what he was looking for. “This should be it,” he said, running his finger down the page. “Here, Liddell.”

“Lawrence James Liddell, 8th Baron of Aylesford, Born 5 August, 1850, at Somerset House, Chelsea. Healthy, no birthmarks, ten fingers, ten toes. Father, Alexander James Liddell, 7th Baron of Aylesford, moved to Somerset house 10 May, 1850. Mother, Lady Antonia Hunter, daughter of the Viscount of Sydney, Chiddingstone, Kent. Mother and Father not currently married. Mother formerly married to Lord Astley, 10th Baron of Hastings, deceased, and Lord Talbot, 7th Baron of Blackmere, deceased.”

“Jack, she was a black widow,” Phryne said. 

“There’s no indication she murdered them,” he said looking at the book. “But we can ask Scotland Yard for information on those deaths.”

“But a twice-widowed woman, certainly older than Alexander, would have posed a threat to the Barony of Aylesford.”

“I can see why Lawrence Liddell was loath to have his fortune pass on to her care.”

“But why not just send Lady Antonia and her child on her way, back to Chiddingstone Castle, and forbid any union?” Phryne mused. “Unless she wasn’t allowed back.”

“I don’t know if that’s the kind of evidence we’re going to find here,” Jack said, copying the information from the Midwives Book into his notes. “Besides. I’m starving.”

“Me, too,” Phryne said and helped him pack up.

On their way out, they stopped at the front desk to say goodbye to Millie. “Thank you again for your assistance, Miss Tyndale,” Jack said. “I wouldn’t have known where to begin, otherwise.”

“My pleasure, Inspector,” Millie replied. “I’m happy I was able to, um, show you around.” She gave him a sly smile and looked him in the eyes. 

Phryne watched as several reactions crossed Jack’s face and recognized every one of them. She reached up and gripped the inside of his bicep, probably a little harder than she should have. 

“Time for lunch,” Phryne announced.

“Yes it is,” Jack agreed. “Good day, Miss Tyndale,” he said politely and let Phryne practically spin him around toward the door. 

“Jack Robinson, what was going on with you and Miss Millie Tyndale?” Phryne asked when they were out on the street. 

“Nothing,” Jack said.

“Poppycock,” she said. “She was flirting with you.”

“Did you just say ‘poppycock’? You have been in London too long,” he bantered back. 

“Don’t change the subject, Jack. She was flirting with you,” Phryne insisted. “And you liked it!”

“It was nothing more than friendly conversation,” he replied, spreading his arms in a gesture of ‘nothing to hide’, slightly indignant that she didn’t trust him. 

“Oh, and next thing I know you’ll be telling me she’s an ‘old friend’,” she crossed her arms and glared at him. 

“What?!” The back of Jack’s neck bristled with her insinuation, and his guilty conscience threw up defenses and fired back. “Well maybe I’ll let her invite me to supper. Maybe I’ll stay for a nightcap, as well. Do some reminiscing.”

Phryne felt as if she’d been punched. 

+++


	15. Chapter 15

“Jack!” she exclaimed, a look of horror and betrayal on her face. Her mouth moved as if to say something, but her eyes moistened at the same time, so she turned her back to him and leaned on the hood of the car.

He hung his head and covered his eyes, feeling even worse than he had for flirting with Millie. His instinct was to avoid the conflict, turn and walk the block back to the Savoy without her, but that would only make things worse. He may have done that a year ago when she was being difficult or unreasonable, but things were very different now. He had to set things straight right away. His fear of losing her was far greater than his fear of embarrassment. He sighed, swallowed his pride and stepped toward her. 

“Phryne,” he said softly. She sniffed and stiffened, but didn’t respond. “Phryne,” he said again, more pleading this time, and placing his hand gently on her shoulder he leaned in to try to catch her eyes. She turned to him, chin up to maintain her own pride, but still said nothing. 

“Why don’t we get in the car, and I can tell you about it, rather than out here on the street,” he suggested. She nodded, and he held the door for her before getting in on the other side. 

“You are right,” he began. “She was flirting with me.” Phryne looked up at him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

“Go on,” she said, knowing there was more. 

“And she was doing it because,” he paused, looked down, shook his head, then looked right into her eyes. “Because I started it.” Phryne glared at him and he could almost see the steam coming out of her ears. 

“And I started it,” he continued, “because she was giving me the run-around and not letting me into the archives. I explained why I was there on Inspector Howard’s orders, and when she called him to confirm, he wasn’t in the office. I showed her my police credentials and she started asking all these questions about Australia, and I was getting nowhere.” At this point, Phryne’s eyes had softened and she was no longer staring daggers at him, but she still wasn’t speaking. He took that as a good sign and pressed on. 

“So,” he leaned toward her and used the same playful voice he’d used with Millie. “I told her if she ever visited Australia I’d be happy to show her around.” At that point Phryne pursed her lips in an attempt to keep from laughing, but it was no use. A giggle escaped, her eyes sparkled again, and she relaxed.

“You flirted with her to get around the rules?” Phryne asked, incredulous. “Where would you ever get an idea like that?” she teased. 

“I have no idea,” he replied, allowing himself a chuckle. 

“So tell me about this conversation, Inspector Flirt,” Phryne pressed. 

“Well, she asked if I’d be showing her around in a police motorcar with the sirens and lights, and I asked her if she was planning on committing a crime. When she asked if that included handcuffs I told her only if she showed me where to start my research. That’s when she finally let me sign in.”

“I must say I’m impressed,” Phryne said. “Was there more?”

“No, but she did say she knew I was only flirting and she understood it didn’t mean anything, and that it was nice to help someone who was friendly. I suppose they deal with a lot of irritable and ungracious people in there.”

“So you got what you wanted, why were you so defensive about it?” she asked. 

“You know that’s not my style. And I felt like I was somehow being unfaithful,” he admitted. 

“If she wasn’t expecting anything, and it was merely to get information, then you didn’t do anything wrong,” Phryne reasoned, although Jack wasn’t sure if he agreed with her. He had no problem lying to a suspect in an interrogation, but it irritated his conscience to deceive a woman with flattery and false attention. 

“Be that as it may,” he continued, his conscience still burdened. “I did do something wrong a moment ago. I apologize for what I said about reminiscing and all that. It was uncalled for and I’m sorry. I’ve had a long morning and I’m starving, and I didn’t mean any of it.”

“Oh, Jack,” she said warmly, scooting next to him on the seat. “I’m sorry, too. I’ve had a difficult morning myself.” She held his face in her hands and he put his arms around her. “I hate arguing with you.”

“As do I,” he replied, brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers. “But I think I’m going to enjoy making up with you from now on.”

“As will I,” she returned his smile.

“I love you,” he said, his voice husky with the emotional relief of their reconnection. Her forgiveness was something he would never take for granted. 

“I love you, too,” she replied and he kissed her. 

“Now, let’s go get something to eat, shall we?” he asked. “Where to?”

“The Sunroom at the Savoy. It’s the closest.” So Jack started the Hispano and drove the block back to the hotel. 

The Sunroom was like a greenhouse, with half the room encased in glass walls that arched over the dining area. Tables were interspersed with lots of large potted plants and a fountain trickled against one wall. They were seated near the fountain and between two fluffy palms which provided them a good measure of privacy. Once their food was served, Phryne couldn’t help digging a little deeper into Jack’s newfound means of persuasion.

“So Jack, what made you think that flirting would be the way to get you into the archives?” she asked. 

“I don’t know, it just seemed that was all I had left. But I felt guilty the whole time.”

“I doubt that,” Phryne said. “Miss Millie Tyndale, of the bouncy, auburn curls and alabaster skin, seemed fairly responsive to your charms.”

“To be honest, I felt like you were watching me the entire time. And when she mentioned the handcuffs,” Jack paused and shook his head. “I half expected you to appear out of nowhere and slug me.”

“Well, I’m glad to know the mere thought of me can keep you honest, but really, you shouldn’t worry about that.”

“You’re the only one I want to flirt with, Miss Fisher,” he said. 

“Jack Robinson, from now on, I give you permission to use your suave and persuasive skills on unsuspecting ladies if it will help you solve a case,” she said. “It would be unfair for me to be the only one in our relationship to be allowed to do that.”

“Who said you were allowed?” Jack pretended to protest and she laughed. 

“As long as it doesn’t mean anything and is only intended to grease the wheels, there’s no reason why we both shouldn’t use it if necessary.”

“When did your flirting with me stop being about just greasing the wheels?” he asked her, intentionally steering the conversation in a different direction. 

“I don’t remember,” she said, hedging. Was she ready to reveal that information yet? She decided everything was on the table with Jack. “Probably after you kissed me that day you recovered my painting.”

“That’s what I think, too,” he said, noting how she mentioned the painting and not the man who’d stolen it. 

“What do you mean?”

“Subtle changes I noticed about you when we were together,” he said. “It’s possible the change in me informed what I perceived to be a change in you, but that kiss was a flashpoint for both of us, don’t you think?”

“Very much so,” she admitted, letting his words dance in her mind as she distilled their meaning. “Was that your intention?”

“No, it honestly started as a way to distract you,” he said. “Until our lips touched. After that,” he shook his head and waved his fork as if brushing aside everything that came before. “After that, there was no turning back for me.”

“You’re very forthcoming today, Jack,” she said. 

“You deserve to know everything,” he explained. 

“I admit, I fought what it made me feel,” she said. “It cut across everything I was then.”

“I could tell.”

“Could you?”

“For all your brash defiance of rules and social norms for women, there were moments of uncharacteristic restraint, as if you weren’t always trying to turn me into a parade entry,” he teased and she rolled her eyes. “I’d like to believe it was because you started to think of me as more of a friend and partner than just another dalliance. But after that kiss, I feared being caught in your web and then cast aside. Restraint was all I had to prevent that.”

“It didn’t take me long to figure out you’d never be a mere dalliance, Jack,” she avowed. “But after that first kiss, I was the one caught in your web.” 

“How so, Miss Fisher?” he said, cocking his head to the side with a curious expression.

“I’m not the only one of us with the power to sway the other,” she said. “We just sway each other differently. It took time for me to notice, but once I did, I was stunned by how strong an effect you had on me.”

“I can’t say it was always intentional,” he said.

“Intentional or not, it was all the little things that added up,” she paused to find the right words to clarify. “It’s as if I were a cup of tea and you were adding one grain of sugar at a time until I took on a whole new flavor. She smiled and put her hand on his. “And look at me now: The leopard really has changed her spots.”

“I have a feeling,” he said rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb. “That the leopard was really just an unmarked lioness to begin with, and her spots were for defense, and what’s happened is the spots have faded one by one as the lioness no longer needs those defenses.” 

“I may not be a telescope,” she said, “but around you I feel like I’m made of clear glass. Am I that easy to see through?”

“I have a lot of experience in reading people,” he replied. “And reading you has become my favorite pastime.” Her soft, almost shy smile was becoming a favorite of his, and they shared a long look.

The waiter came by with the check for her to sign so the meal could be charged to her room, then she and Jack headed upstairs. They had to pack and prepare for their trip back out to Maidstone. 

+++

Phryne was rummaging through her wardrobe, half talking to herself as she went, while Jack concentrated on changing into his best blue suit. So far, he’d only managed to remove his jacket and vest, and was undoing his tie when she turned toward him. 

“I think I’ll wear this for dinner tonight,” Phryne said, pulling out a golden, floor-length dress in silk brocade with long bell sleeves and a low-cut back. “What do you think?”

“Beautiful,” Jack said, fingering a sleeve and admiring the heavy, shiny fabric. 

“Do you think it’ll make me look like a lioness?” she dropped her voice and stepped into his personal space.

“Undoubtedly,” he smiled and met her eyes. 

“And if I’m a lioness, does that make you the king of my jungle?” 

It was the perfect tease, and she played it masterfully. Jack’s nerve endings sizzled, but he was no longer intimidated by her advances. In fact, when he’d used the word lioness to describe her earlier, it was a deliberate choice designed to elicit exactly the type of come-on she’d just used. That, in turn, allowed him the opportunity to surprise her. 

He slipped his hand behind her waist and pressed her against him, lowered his mouth to her ear and let out a low growl. Her sharp intake of breath proved he’d hit his mark. He continued by moving his lips to her neck and allowing his teeth a nibble or two. The nails of her free hand dug into his shoulder as she clung to him.

“What time is it,” his voice rumbled against her skin. She swiveled her head to look at the clock. 

“Two-thirty,” she breathed. 

“Just enough time,” he replied, pressing her against the nearest wall and hiking her skirt. She tossed the dress toward a chair and wrapped her leg around his hip while he slipped out of his braces and undid his pants. Her short, silken drawers slid out of the way easily, giving him room to maneuver. 

“Oh, god,” she panted. “Jack,” her head fell back as he lifted her onto him by her thighs, both legs now wrapped around his naked waist. Her cries were swallowed by his ravenous mouth, and his groans fed her in return. 

+++

“Hello, Mother,” Phryne said, after Smythe had called Margaret Fisher to the phone. “Yes, we’ll be leaving in a few minutes. We should be there by five… We’re looking forward to it, too… Mother, there is something important I want to tell you before we see you.” Phryne paused and took a deep breath before sharing the news that would fulfill her mother’s dreams. 

“You don’t have to, darling. It can wait until you get here,” Margaret replied. 

“No, I want to tell you now,” she looked at Jack, standing beside her, holding her hand. He smiled and nodded. “Mother, Jack and I are engaged.”

“Oh!” Margaret cried in surprise. “Oh, Phryne, darling, that’s wonderful!”

“Yes, it is wonderful,” she repeated for Jack’s benefit. She could hear her mother calling her father into the hall so she could tell him as well. 

“I’ll tell you all about it when we get there, but I wanted to give you fair warning,” Phryne said.

“Now I really can’t wait to meet your Inspector,” Margaret said. 

“I can’t wait for you two to meet each other, either.” She deferred answering any more of her mother’s questions until they arrived at Maidstone, then they said their goodbyes. 

“Why were you nervous about telling your mother?” Jack asked. “She sounded quite pleased.”

“I’ll tell you about it on the way,” Phryne said. They eschewed the services of the bell boy this time, so Jack carried their cases, including the bag with the ledger, and Phryne carried a garment bag with her dress and one of Jack’s gray suits in it, and they made their way down to the curb. Once they were on the road out of town, Jack asked her again about her mother. 

“Mother and I had a lot of long talks those first few weeks I was here,” she began. “Mostly about you.” She glanced over at Jack and he glanced back, a small smile teased the corner of his mouth. “I told her all about how we met and solved murders together, and about all of our ups and downs. And I told her how we waltzed at the Grand that day.”

“And what did she think of that?” Jack asked.

“I think that’s when she fell in love with you,” Phryne teased. “She thought it was bold, and significant, and terribly romantic,” she rolled her eyes with a smile. “She’s always had her head in the clouds a bit.” 

“Not many idealists in the world these days,” he commented. “We shouldn’t malign the few we have left.”

“Well, her idealism, as you so charmingly call it, is always looking for the happy ending, especially for me,” Phryne explained. “Her idea of a happy ending, anyway. Merely being engaged isn’t going to be enough for her, so I’m going to have to figure out how to explain to her what we’ve decided on.”

“I’m sure you’ll find the right words when you need them,” he assured her. 

“It was her insatiable appetite for the romantic that caused me to move to the Savoy full time,” Phryne said.

“Did you have an argument?”

“Not exactly. She tried to get me to go back to Melbourne and reunite with you,” she said, pausing to gauge Jack’s reaction. His expression didn’t change much so she continued. “When she realized I wasn’t going to do that, she tried to get me to send you a telegram imploring you to come to London.” 

“I got here as soon as I could,” Jack said. 

“She loves playing Cupid,” Phryne continued. “But when she realized I wasn’t going to play by her rules, she said, ‘if your Inspector ever shows up at your door and proposes to you, you’d better say yes’.”

“I’m going to have to make sure I thank her profusely,” Jack smiled. 

“At the time, I didn’t want to hear that. I just couldn’t see myself that way.”

“Then why did you tell her all about us in the first place?”

“I suppose I just needed to talk to someone, but when she started giving me advice, I balked. I had to get out from under her daily barrage. That’s when I moved to the Savoy full time and started writing to you.”

“So you went from denying your feelings to sending weekly letters to the man you had feelings for,” Jack said with a touch of incredulity. “Makes perfect sense.”

Phryne laughed. “Of course it doesn’t make sense when you say it that way, but talking to you always helps me make sense of things, even if what I was saying wasn’t about the thing I needed to make sense of.”

“Knowing that could have helped me a lot when we were working together in Melbourne,” he said. 

“I’ll try to be more clear from now on. But talking to you always makes me feel,” she paused for the right word. “Grounded,” she concluded. “Even if I end up flying off in a crazy direction, you always help me see where the boundaries are.”

“It’s a dirty job, Miss Fisher,” he said in that familiar bantering tone. “But someone has to do it.” Phryne laughed again.


	16. Chapter 16

CH 16  
+++

“You can take all our bags up to my suite,” Phryne explained to Smythe when he met them out front. “Except for this one,” she picked the satchel with the ledger off the pile and slung it over her shoulder. 

“Yes, Miss,” Smythe said.

“Phryne!” her mother called from the doorway, and Phryne skipped up the steps and into her embrace. Jack was struck by their similarities, as the two more resembled sisters than mother and daughter. Margaret’s hair was pinned up at her neck instead of bobbed like Phryne’s but it was just as dark with elegant streaks of silver. Her creamy skin, high cheekbones, and sparkling eyes were also passed down to her daughter. 

“And this must be Jack,” she said turning to him, saying his name with the same slurry J and snapped-off K as Phryne did. It was only slightly unnerving, but he smiled anyway. 

“Mother, I’d like to introduce you to my fiancé, Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, Victoria Police Force.” Phryne emphasized the word fiancé, her smile beaming. “Jack, my mother, Margaret Denicort Harris Fisher, Baroness of Richmond.”

“It is a delight to meet you, Baroness,” Jack said, sweeping off his hat and bowing over her hand in a grand gesture. 

“Oh, my,” Margaret said, flustered, her hand to her chest. “And what a delight to finally meet you, as well, Inspector. Please, call me Margaret.”

Jack caught Phryne rolling her eyes, but was not deterred. He offered Margaret his elbow. “May I escort you inside, Lady Margaret? Let’s get you away from this winter chill, shall we?”

“Oh, yes, that would be wonderful, thank you.” Margaret took Jack’s arm and let him lead her inside with Smythe holding the door and Phryne bringing up the rear. 

“Come into the parlor, Inspector,” Margaret said as Jack and Phryne took off their coats and hats and handed them off to Smythe. “Smythe has the fire blazing and drinks on the way.”

“Mother, where’s Father?” Phryne asked. 

“Oh, he had gone for a walk with the dogs and got back late. He’s upstairs changing and should be down – oh, there he is. Henry, Phryne and the Inspector are here,” Margaret gushed. 

“Inspector, good to see you again,” Henry said, offering his hand.

“Baron,” Jack nodded. “You’re looking well.”

“My doctor says I should try to walk a bit every day. Even when it’s cold, I find it quite refreshing,” Henry explained. “Hello, Phryne, darling,” he greeted her, kissing her on the cheek. Jack caught Phryne rolling her eyes again and wondered if her restrained exasperation would last all evening. 

“Ah, champagne! Mother, you shouldn’t have,” Phryne said as Smythe rolled in a cart holding a bottle of champagne in a large silver bucket of ice, and four tall flutes. 

“But it’s a celebration, Darling,” Margaret replied. Smythe popped the cork expertly and filled the glasses while Henry handed them out. Jack stepped close to Phryne and placed his hand around her waist. She seemed to relax into the warmth of his hand, and her shoulders loosened with a long, silent exhale. Family was one of her stressors, and Jack knew he’d need to offer extra support. 

“Henry, will you propose a toast?” Margaret asked.

“Of course, darling,” Henry said, raising his glass. “To my beautiful daughter and her very lucky fiancé,” Henry began. “All the best for a lifetime of love and happiness.” 

They tapped glasses and drank. “Thank you, Father,” Phryne said with sincerity. 

“Phryne, darling,” Margaret said, taking a seat close to the fire. The rest of them followed suit. “What are your plans? When is the wedding?”

“Well, Mother, that’s something we need to discuss,” she began.

“If it’s going to be in Australia, I understand. Henry and I will be pleased to make the journey for you, darling.”

“No, Mother, it’s not that, it’s…,” she said, hesitating and glancing at Jack. He gave her the slightest of nods and the merest upturn of his mouth, but it was enough encouragement to press on. 

“Mother, Jack and I are not going to be doing things in the traditional way that you are probably expecting.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not actually getting married.”

“What?” Margaret’s response included both shock and disappointment. 

“Jack and I have promised to be committed to each other for the rest of our lives, and we may buy a set of simple rings, but there won’t be a wedding.”

“Then why say you’re engaged? I don’t understand,” Margaret said. 

“I didn’t know what else to call it,” Phryne explained. “We’re still trying to figure out what to say, but we are committed to each other for life.” She looked at Jack again, and he smiled and nodded more noticeably now, and squeezed her hand. 

“And you’re okay with this, Jack?” Henry asked, his arch tone indicating that maybe his daughter was trying to pull a fast one on Jack.

“It was Jack’s idea, Father,” Phryne declared in Jack’s defense. “He knew a traditional offer of marriage would turn me off.”

“How can you be committed without being married,” Henry stated, barely containing the scoffing tone in his voice. 

“I suppose as easily as you can fail to be committed while actually being married,” Phryne retorted. 

“Phryne, Henry, please,” Margaret implored. “This is a day of celebration! Our daughter has found someone to share her life with, however they decide to express it. Let’s have another toast.”

“I agree, Lady Margaret,” Jack said getting up from his seat. “Let’s continue our celebration.” He took the bottle and refilled their glasses, glad for the opportunity to redirect the conversation. If he was ever going to make an impression with a toast, now was the time. 

“I’ll have you both know,” he began, directing his comments to Margaret and Henry, “that I thought long and hard about whether or not to make any kind of offer to your daughter. She is an independent woman who does things her own way. But, as I’ve had the opportunity to interact with her in various situations while she was living in Melbourne, I’ve learned a lot of wonderful things about her.”

“Ooo, go on, Inspector,” Margaret cooed, giving Jack her full attention. 

“Yes, do go on, Inspector,” Phryne teased with a curious smile. 

“I have learned,” Jack stated, standing before them, glass in hand, “that the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher is first of all intelligent, but also strong and resilient, compassionate toward those in need, and passionate about enjoying everything life has to offer. But most of all, while she truly is beautiful on the outside, she’s even more beautiful on the inside, and I couldn’t imagine my life without her. So,” he held out his hand for her to stand and face him. “Phryne, my love, I toast you, for all that you are, and for allowing me to enjoy, and love, all of you for the rest of my life.”

He tapped his glass to hers, watching her closely as the emotions danced like fairies in the sparkles in her eyes. A long moment passed between them, the only sounds were the soft ticking of the clock and the crackling and snapping of the fire. Even Henry and Margaret were at a loss for words.

“Thank you, Jack,” Phryne whispered, fighting the crack in her voice, and lifted her glass to her lips. 

“To Phryne, then,” Margaret said with a happy sigh.

“Yes, to Phryne,” Henry added, and they all tapped glasses and drank.

“I suppose I’d better return the favor,” Phryne said, glancing sideways at Jack, but smiling as she topped off their glasses. Jack lifted his chin and smiled back, partly in curiosity, partly in challenge. 

“I have learned,” she began, “that Mr. Jack Robinson is also intelligent and compassionate. In addition, he is honorable, loyal, and thoughtful, will sacrifice duty to do what’s right, and his heart runs as deep as the Pacific Ocean. Not only does he take me as I am, in all my wild, spontaneous glory, he is willing to dive into that wild ocean with me. He’s changed my life for the better, and is the only man I’d change my life for. So, Jack, my love,” she turned to him and tucked her arm around his waist under his suit coat. “I toast you, for being everything I didn’t know I needed, and for making yourself so indispensable that I will need you, and love you, for the rest of my life.”

“It’s my honor,” Jack said quietly, deeply affected by her words. 

“To Jack,” Henry declared. 

“To Jack,” Phryne and Margaret echoed, and they all clinked glasses again. 

“You two are so romantic together,” Margaret sighed happily again. 

“I suppose I really have inherited your starry-eyed idealism, Mother,” Phryne said. 

“I always had hope,” Margaret replied with a lift of her glass. 

“You’re the only one who hasn’t made a toast, Margaret,” Henry said. “What say you, my dear?”

“Oh, I’m no good at these things,” she demurred. 

“Of course you are, Mother,” Phryne encouraged. “Just say the first thing you think of.”

“All right then,” Margaret cleared her throat and held out her glass. “To Jack and Phryne and their lifelong partnership of the heart: May love and romance follow them all the days of their lives!” 

“Hear, hear,” Jack said as they tapped glasses again. 

“Life partners,” Phryne mused. “What do you think of that, Jack?”

“I think it’s perfect,” he said looking at her. Their eyes locked for a long moment, then Jack leaned in and kissed her. In a way, they had sealed their commitment in that moment. Their mutual declarations of love and fidelity, with family as witnesses and followed by a kiss, felt like a ceremony. Whatever came tomorrow, Jack considered himself officially bound to Phryne now, his life partner. The look in her eyes indicated she felt the same. 

“Dinner will be in half an hour, Madam,” Smythe announced. 

“Thank you Smythe,” Margaret said. 

“I suppose I need to excuse myself to go change then,” Phryne said, and she shared a sly grin with Jack as they both thought of the dress she’d brought. 

“As do I,” Margaret said. 

“That leaves you two boys to get to know each other better,” Phryne teased and glanced from Jack to her father. “Keep it civil, will you?” She and her mother laughed as they left the parlor and headed upstairs. Phryne took her satchel with the Ledger from the hook on the hall tree so she could stash it safely in her room.

“Oh, Phryne, he’s so wonderful,” Margaret said in the upper hall outside her bedroom door. “And so handsome.”

“I told you you’d like him,” Phryne said, thinking of all those long conversations she and her mother had shared. 

“Like him? I’ve loved him for months, simply from your descriptions.”

“I couldn’t ask for more, that you would love Jack, too.”

“Phryne,” Margaret put a gentle hand on her daughter’s arm. “I know you are a free spirit, an independent woman, but don’t completely dismiss the idea of marriage. You’re already committed to each other; marriage just makes it official, and it protects a woman in various legal and financial ways.”

“Mother, part of my independence is being independently wealthy. I have savvy financial and legal advisors who have protected me in many ways over the last ten years. And Jack is a police detective who has protected me from bodily harm a few dozen times. I’m certainly not committing to him for his money, nor is he committing to me for mine.”

“Oh, I know, darling,” Margaret said. “You know me and my romantic notions.”

“I do, Mother, and I’m not as dismissive of them as I have pretended to be all these years. I just wasn’t as optimistic as you were. Jack has helped me see the error of my ways.”

“I’m glad, darling,” Margaret patted Phryne on the arm. “And I’m so very glad you have found Jack.”

“Me, too, Mother. And I will consider your suggestion.” They parted ways and Phryne hustled into her suite to get ready. 

+++

“So you believe there’s another heir to Maidstone?” Henry asked, after Jack went over the broad strokes of the murder case. 

“We haven’t determined if there’s another legitimate heir beyond Phryne, but there may be someone who thinks he or she is a legitimate heir and is willing to go to great lengths to secure it.”

“And you don’t think it was this poor Loddington chap?”

“No, he was not a blood descendent of the Liddells, however, it’s possible he was working for someone who was, doing the research and feeding that person information.”

“Do you think Phryne is in any danger?”

“It’s possible, but I’m not letting her go too far alone.”

“Good man,” Henry said.

“Baron,” Jack began but Henry stopped him. 

“Please, call me Henry.”

“All right, Henry, what do you know about the history of Maidstone?”

“Well, I know the Fisher family story. My grandfather, George William Fisher, came to Maidstone through marriage to a Liddell woman. His family owned properties all over England, including Norfolk House and the townhouse in Somerset. He had a son who became Eugene’s father. When George’s wife died, he inherited Maidstone, then married a woman without a title. Their son became my father, but because my father would not inherit the title, he requested his monetary inheritance and struck out for Australia. Margaret’s father immigrated to Victoria with his family about the same time, hoping to strike it rich in the gold fields.”

“What did you know about your grandmother, George William’s first wife?”

“Only that somehow she inherited Maidstone from her family.”

“We’ve learned that your grandmother was Victoria Jane Liddell, daughter of the 6th Baron of Aylesford, whose family expanded Maidstone to what it is today. Victoria’s brother, Alexander Liddell, was disinherited possibly due to a plot against his father. He kept the title, but Victoria inherited Maidstone and all the wealth. Victoria married George William, and that’s how the name changed from Liddell to Fisher, and how the title associated with Maidstone changed from Baron of Aylesford to Baron of Richmond.”

“That’s astonishing. What happened to Alexander?”

“He received a monthly distribution and a town house in the Chelsea area of London. He moved there and married. His son, Lawrence James Liddell, had a son named Xander. Xander died late in the war, and the title of Baron of Aylesford died with him. When his father Lawrence died, his widow married John Loddington, who was employed at Maidstone as a gardener, and who was gifted fifty acres of Maidstone land by your Uncle Richard, Eugene’s father, where he planted the orchard. His son, Reginald, is the murder victim, and Xander’s half-brother.

“Fascinating,” Henry said. 

“There’s more,” Jack said. “Go back to your grandmother, Victoria. Her mother was the Baroness of Aylesford, Margaret Elizabeth Denicort Liddell, and her sister was Victoria Mary Denicort.”

“Denicort?” 

“Yes, Lady Margaret is her great granddaughter.”

“So that means Phryne is …”

“The great, great grandniece of the Baron of Aylesford.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Henry said. “I knew my wife was well-suited to the gentry, now I know it’s in her blood, and Phryne’s as well.”

“It also means that Phryne’s claim to Maidstone is airtight.”

“Does she know?”

“Yes,” Jack nodded, then changed the subject. “Henry, did you know Reginald Loddington at all?”

“Margaret and I had met him years ago when we first moved out here, but only interacted with him a few times when he would come by with his fruit cart. Margaret may have spoken with him more often, but we really didn’t know him very well.”

“Had you heard any stories or rumors about him?”

“What do you mean?”

“That he was always doing some sort of research or that he was an unusual person?” Jack suggested.

“No, I hadn’t heard anything like that. But the staff may know; they would have had more interaction with him and others in Mr. Loddington’s circle.”

“We interviewed them the other day when we were here,” Jack drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, wondering if they’d missed something and would need to speak to the staff again. “Did you know about the cemetery plot?”

“I had heard of it, but had never seen it so I dismissed it as rumor. I was kind of surprised to learn it was overgrown in the woods. You’d think the graves of an important family like the Liddells would have been maintained.”

“Where are the Fishers buried?”

“In the churchyard at St. Nicholas’s. It backs up to Maidstone just east of here. My grandfather donated several acres of Maidstone land when they started running out of space in their churchyard.”

“Are there any other family members living in the area?”

“Not that I know of. Of course, after the war, there were people going ‘round to all the big houses and saying they were related but that the connecting relative had died in the war. I never fell for it, but a few did. Caused them no end of trouble.”

“Had you heard of any suspicious characters in the area, maybe?”

“No, we don’t usually hear those types of rumors, and if there’s truly a threat, then Smythe keeps us informed. And of course, we left town on Wednesday.”

Jack was debating whether to ask Henry about Maidstone’s finances when Henry spoke again. 

“The Times says you don’t have any leads.”

“We have leads, we just don’t have a suspect,” Jack clarified. 

+++

Phryne hung back in the shadows of the hallway, watching Jack and her father talk. She liked to watch Jack when he was unaware, studying his posture, his hands, and the way the light would play with the sculptured angles of his face. She’d been watching him this way since they’d met, and it was how she’d discovered the breadth and depth of his integrity, treating all with fairness and respect. She didn’t know how he did it, and she was awed by his steady demeanor, compared to how she often struggled to hide her opinions of others. Jack deserved to be in a much higher position than simply a detective, but in her mind, he was too good for the corrupt upper levels of the Victoria Police Force, or any police force. They didn’t deserve him. 

The thought crossed her mind that maybe she didn’t deserve him either, but he would disagree, say it was he who didn’t deserve her, which of course meant they were perfect for each other. She smiled at the thought, squared her shoulders and strode into the parlor.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she greeted them, feeling Jack’s eyes give her a slow, appreciative inspection. 

“Phryne, my dear, you look captivating,” her father said. 

“Thank you, Father,” she replied with a small curtsey then turned to Jack. His smile was soft with admiration, and his eyes carried a hint of sly seduction that sent a ripple through her insides.

“Beautiful,” he said quietly, taking her hand and stepping close enough to whisper in her ear. “My lioness.” Phryne’s knees weakened slightly, but Jack’s hand on the small of her back steadied her. She was saved from having to respond, as her mother entered the room at that moment. 

“Good evening, everyone,” she said, and all eyes turned. 

“My darling, you are a vision tonight,” Henry said with all seriousness, dipping his head to drop a sweet kiss on her check. Margaret’s eyes lit up and the smile they shared revealed their lifelong love, regardless of all the ups and downs they’d been through. Phryne captured the image in her mind for future contemplation. 

“Exquisite, Lady Margaret,” Jack said, bowing over her hand again. 

“Stunning, Mother, truly,” Phryne added. 

“Oh, and Phryne, look at you,” Margaret said. “Like the golden statue of Athena atop the Athenaeum Club.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“Dinner is served,” Smythe announced, and the four of them followed him into the Grand Dining Room. The space was obviously designed to host large dinner parties, and sported huge fireplaces at both ends, though only one was ablaze. The floor-to-ceiling windows were covered with heavy curtains to keep out the chill, and a smaller table for four was set near the crackling fire, where the ladies were seated on the sides closer to the hearth. 

A six-course meal commenced, with a different wine for every course, and Jack was warm and relaxed by the time coffee and dessert were served. Conversation around the table had included shared stories of travel and adventure, from their youths growing up in Melbourne, to Phryne’s globetrotting. She made sure to exclude any stories or mentions of any dalliances along the way, for which Jack was grateful. 

“What a wonderful meal,” Margaret said. “I haven’t enjoyed myself this much in a long time. Jack, you make being a ten-year-old boy sound like the grandest adventure of them all.” 

“It was the grandest adventure of my life,” Jack said. “Until I met your daughter.” 

“Honestly, Jack,” Phryne said, trying to downplay his compliment. “I’m sure I cause you far too much grief to be considered a grand adventure.” Jack just smiled over the rim of his coffee cup. 

“Sir, Madame, I’ve stoked the fire in the parlor if you’d like to retire there,” Smythe announced, and they all agreed that would be lovely. 

“I can just imagine the parties and laughter and stories that went on here long ago,” Margaret mused as she settled into her chair by the fire. “The Liddells must have had a grand time. The food, the dresses, the dancing…” she trailed off. 

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Phryne said, “but so much of the design and décor here seem to point to a happier time.”

“I feel it tonight,” Margaret said. “I feel Maidstone is headed for better times, especially now that you and Jack are together.”

Jack and Phryne looked at each other, knowing the dire financial straits the property was facing, but not daring to discuss it now. ‘

“Did you know,” Margaret continued, “that the Liddell’s hosted grand May-Day celebrations every year, and one year Queen Victoria herself attended.”

“I’d heard about the May-Day celebrations, but how did you hear about the Queen?” Phryne asked. 

“I read it in the archives, darling,” Margaret said matter-of-factly.

“Archives?” Phryne, Jack and Henry all responded together.

+++


	17. Chapter 17

CH 17  
++++

“Yes, the Maidstone archives,” Margaret insisted. “Down in the basement.”

“Oh, I remember now,” Phryne said. “I went in there once when I was exploring not long after we moved here, but it was only full of dusty books and made me sneeze. And there were spiders.” She looked at Jack who just grinned and wiggled his fingers at her. 

“I had no idea we had archives,” Henry said. 

“Well, the extent of your exploring stopped at the wine cellar,” Margaret said. “The archives are in the room after that. I used to go down there and read for hours while you were away.”

“Well, let’s go, then,” Phryne said, getting up.

“It's a bit late, isn’t it?” Henry said. “It’s almost nine o’clock.”

“Spoil sport,” Margaret said getting up. “I’ll ask Smythe to bring our furs, darling,” Margaret said to Phryne. “It’s quite chilly down there.”

“You coming, Jack?” Phryne turned to him.

“How could I say no? But you’re not deterred by the potential presence of arachnids?” he asked.

“Not with you there to protect me,” she said, her voice smooth and languid from all the wine they’d consumed during dinner. She polished off her glass of port in one swig and continued. “Who knows what information we might find that could lead us to our killer.”

Smythe brought in a pair of luxurious coats – a reddish-brown ermine for Phryne, and a charcoal Russian sable for Margaret. Jack helped Phryne on with her coat, allowing his hands to linger on the soft fur, his mind conjuring a sultry scenario or two. 

“Are you coming or not, Henry,” Margaret said as Smythe helped her on with her coat. 

“Why would I want to go down into that dungeon of a basement when I can sit up here by the warm fire and have another glass of port?”

“What happened to your sense of adventure, Father?” Phryne asked.

“I lost every last shred of it on that outlandish flight home in your rickety plane,” he scoffed.

“One wonders if the fear of arachnids is inherited,” Jack commented, eliciting a robust chuckle from Phryne.

“I’ll have you know, I have no fear of spiders,” Henry announced in self-defense.

“Suit yourself,” Margaret said. “Jack will have to protect us from spiders by himself.”

“I’m up to the challenge, Lady Margaret,” Jack said, offering her his elbow again. 

“Lead on, Mother,” Phryne said, and followed Margaret and Jack out of the parlor. They headed for the kitchen and a door next to the butler’s pantry. 

“We’re going down to the basement for a few moments,” Margaret informed Mrs. Nettles who came to inquire what they were all doing in her kitchen.

“Well, then take this light with you for heaven’s sake,” she said, handing Jack a large, battery-powered light attached to a wooden box with a handle. “There’s lights, but they aren’t so bright.”

“I haven’t seen one of these since the war,” Jack commented, testing it out.

“Smythe bought a couple of them at an Army surplus sale a few years ago,” Mrs. Nettles said. “And here’s a smaller one,” she handed Phryne a short-handled torch. 

“Let’s go,” Margaret said with excitement, ready to descend into the gloom.

“How about I go first,” Jack said, noticing a bit of a wobble in her step from the wine at dinner. “Lady Margaret, you can put your hand on my shoulder to steady yourself.” He had consumed a good amount of wine himself and therefore concentrated on taking every step carefully.

“Chivalry isn’t dead,” Margaret declared as she followed Jack down the stairs. Phryne brought up the rear again, wondering how she’d ended up in that position several times already this evening. The wine was affecting her as much as her mother, if not more since she’d drunk more, and she would have liked to have had Jack to lean on, but she made do with the railings and the hard stone walls.

The basement hall was a long stone tunnel with an arched ceiling, illuminated every twenty feet or so by bare bulbs of a low wattage. Jack squinted until his eyes adjusted. The cold, humid air sent a chill through the wool of his suit and he fought off a shiver. 

“Which way, Lady Margaret?”

“To the right, Inspector.” They turned that direction and started walking. Heavy wooden doors marched down each side of the hall bearing labels such as “Storage: Baron Fisher,” “Storage: Baroness Fisher,” “Christmas Decorations,” “Old Kitchen Equipment,” and “Luggage.” They came to a very wide wooden door that was split down the middle and latched with a long wooden beam.

“This is the wine cellar,” Margaret pointed out. “The Archives is the next room.” The door was not labeled, and there was no lock, only a metal latch. “It seems to be stuck,” Margaret said after trying it a few times.

“Let me try,” Jack said, handing her the light. “Aim it here.” He pushed hard on the latch but it was wedged tightly.

“Here,” Phryne handed him her shoe. “It’s not a .38 revolver, but it might do the trick,” she teased. Jack grinned back at her, then turned her shoe over and hit the underside of the latch firmly with the heel. The metal bar flew up and swung free.

“Excellent!” Margaret cheered. “This is so exciting!” Jack pushed the door open with his shoulder and he and Phryne shone their lights inside. 

“Oh!” Phryne exclaimed, then sneezed several times as a cloud of dust billowed out. Jack pulled his handkerchief out of his coat pocket and handed it to her. She used it to cover her nose and mouth as they stepped into the room. 

Margaret reached up in the center of the room and pulled the light chain, illuminating floor-to-ceiling bookshelves around the four walls of the room, with a table and chairs in the middle. 

“This looks like where my day began,” Jack commented wryly, shining the light around. 

“This is incredible,” Phryne said in a muffled voice through Jack’s handkerchief. She aimed her light at a few specific items on the shelf closest to her. 

“Isn’t it though?” Margaret asked with the pure enthusiasm of a devotee. “And we are the caretakers entrusted with all this history.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Henry said, poking his nose in after them. 

“I’m so glad you changed your mind, darling,” Margaret said, taking his hand and leading him into the room. “There are so many fascinating things here. Look, here’s Baron Liddell’s desk set, with an inkwell and his sealing wax and official seal.” She showed him the wooden handle with the metal seal on one end, a few bits of red wax still adhering to it.

“That’s rather marvelous, isn’t it,” Henry said peering at it in the gloom. Phryne stepped closer and aimed her light on it. 

“I’d like to take that upstairs and test it out, get a good look at the seal.”

“Sure, darling,” Margaret said and handed it to her. 

“Is that a sword?” Henry said, walking over to where Jack was.

“Appears to have belonged to the 4th Baron of Aylesford, Thomas Holland Liddell, circa 1771, if I’m reading the inscription correctly,” Jack said, squinting at the handle. He slid the weapon out of the scabbard with a satisfying metallic whoosh. The blade glinted in the light and everyone was impressed. 

“Looks in excellent condition,” Henry said, carefully turning the blade while Jack held the handle. “Sharp, too.”

“Thomas Liddell was assigned a royal governorship in North Carolina in 1771,” Margaret said, “and had the sword made to take with him. But the colonists had barricaded the governor’s mansion so he refused the appointment and it was given to someone else.” 

“How did you know that, Margaret?” Henry asked.

“It’s like I told you - I’ve spent time down here reading. The history is so fascinating!”

Jack slid the sword back into the scabbard with another metallic whoosh, and placed it back on the shelf. “Lady Margaret, are there any books or documents relating to Alexander Liddell, the young Baron who was disinherited in 1850?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Bring your light, Inspector.” Jack went over to where she was standing in front of a bookshelf and held the light up for her. “Right here,” she said, taking a red leather-bound book off the shelf, the spine of which was embossed with gold lettering indicating it was a journal for the years 1850-1852. 

“It’s all in here,” she handed the book to Jack with reverence. “Baroness Margaret Liddell’s personal diary. I read all of her diaries since we share the same first name and the responsibility for this place.”

“I’ll take good care of it,” Jack said. “It might contain some of the answers we need to solve the murder.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Margaret visibly shivered inside her sable coat. “I’d forgotten about that nasty business.”

“I tell you what, Mother,” Phryne said, taking her by the elbow. “Why don’t we go on up and Smythe will make you a hot toddy to chase this chill. It’s almost time for bed anyway.”

“Yes, that sounds wonderful, darling. Henry, will you help me up the stairs?”

“Of course, my dear.” Henry collected his wife and Phryne handed him the small flashlight.

“We’ll lock it back up,” Phryne said as her parents made their way down the hall.

“Well, looks like we hit the jackpot,” Jack said, aiming the light around the room at the shelves one more time. 

“Almost as much as I hit the ‘Jack’pot with you,” Phryne said, sidling up and opening the front of her coat to him. He put the light on the table and slid his arms around her while she wrapped the coat around him as far as it would reach. 

“Yes, you did,” Jack chuckled softly, her body and her coat warming him from without while the lingering effects of the wine continued to warm him from within. He bent to kiss her, causing another kind of warmth to radiate from deep inside. 

“This really does define who we are, doesn’t it Jack?” she said. “Standing in the middle of a dusty basement, surrounded by clues that might help us solve a murder, all the while unable to keep our hands off each other.”

“I don’t think you could separate what we do best from what we do second best,” he reasoned. “Not for long anyway.”

“Like I said: Jackpot,” she grinned and he kissed her again. 

“Mmm… Jack,” Phryne said, breaking their kiss and pointing to one of the shelves. “Look.”

“At least you let me kiss you this time before you were distracted by a clue,” he said, turning to follow her lead. 

“These are Alexander’s diaries,” she said. “Initials AJL, 1849, 1848, 1847…,” she recited the dates backward in time on each of the navy leather bound books. 

“And Baron Lawrence O. D. Liddell, and all the other Liddells,” Jack mused, holding the light so it shone on the entire bookshelf. 

“They certainly had a penchant for their diaries,” Phryne commented, pulling Alexander’s 1849 diary off the shelf. “I suppose he took the 1850 diary with him when he left, but this surely will have some clues as to why he was disinherited. At least, from the perspective of a 22 year old heir apparent.”

“And none of this information would have been available to Loddington,” Jack said. “This could fill in a lot of blanks.”

“It feels like we’re writing the family history, but not really finding any clues to who the killer is,” Phryne said. 

“What’s past is prologue,” Jack said, selecting Baron Lawrence Liddell’s diary from 1850. “And prologue is often motive.”

“Did you learn that at the police academy, or did you make that one up yourself,” she teased.

“Shakespeare plus experience, my love,” he remarked. 

Phryne collected the books and the Baron’s seal while Jack turned off the light and latched the door. When they finally reached the kitchen, they were enveloped by the warmth of the stove and hearth. They stood in front of the fire for a few moments to shake off the dankness of the cellar. 

“Do you have a padlock?” Jack whispered to Phryne while Mrs. Nettles washed pots and pans in the sink, water running and humming to herself. 

“Why?”

“Now that the staff surely knows we’ve been in the archives, it might be a good idea to lock it up.”

“I agree,” she said. “I have a lock on my steamer trunk we can use.” They went upstairs to get the lock, secured the archive items in Phryne’s cabinet with the ledger, and then locked her bedroom door behind them. Without saying a word to anyone, they hustled back down to the archives to put the lock on. Mission completed, Phryne headed for the wine cellar door. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asked.

“Covering our tracks,” Phryne said with a grin. “Mrs. Nettles saw us go back downstairs. Let her think we were only headed here.” She lifted the wooden bar easily, and the right side door swung inward and they stepped inside. She pulled the light string and the room was illuminated. Several hundred bottles were stored in organized sections, along with a dozen wooden casks, various crates and wooden boxes.

“What do you want, Jack? Wine, beer, scotch, gin, rum?”

“Depends on how drunk you want to get tonight,” he quipped.

“Rum it is, then,” she grinned and took a round, brown bottle off a bottom shelf. She peeled the wax seal off, removed the cork, and took a swig. “Mm,” she made a face then handed the bottle to Jack.

Jack narrowed his eyes at her, unsure how much track-covering she was planning on doing before they had to negotiate the stone stairs. Still, he took a swig and made his own face as the strong spirit burned its way down his throat. 

“Have you ever made a timid choice, Miss Fisher?” he said, blinking and shaking his head. It was some of the strongest rum he’d ever had. She reached for the bottle, but he took another swig before handing it to her. She took another drink herself before replacing the cork.

“One more,” Jack said, taking the bottle and removing the cork before consuming a double swig. It was strong, but very good.

“Careful, Jack,” Phryne advised. He nodded, and they each had a couple more swigs, passing the bottle back and forth, daring each other with their eyes.

“That’s enough, or we’ll never get up the stairs,” he finally said, replacing the cork, the effects of the rum starting to work their way into his limbs and consciousness.

“We can grab some glasses from the kitchen on our way up,” she replied, leaning on him. They closed up the wine cellar and carefully negotiated the stairs. Near the top, Phryne’s foot slipped and she fell back onto Jack who fell back against the wall as he grabbed her.

“Are you all right?”

“These shoes were not made for steep stone stairs,” she said. 

“Then it’s a good thing we’re only just slightly drunk,” he replied, feeling a little woozy after the long climb. 

“Slightly? Are you sure?” she asked.

“Just a couple more steps to the door,” he encouraged. “Come on.”

“And then the stairs up to my room,” Phryne reminded, her words a little more slurred than just a few moments ago.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said. 

“But it’s stairs, not a bridge,” Phryne commented, suddenly confused. She looked at him and his mouth moved as if to reply, but couldn’t nail down a proper comeback. 

Phryne’s laugh started as a sputtering chuckle. “Your face, when you try to talk,” she began, then dissolved into giggles. Jack had forgotten what was so funny, but he couldn’t resist her hearty laughter and started laughing himself. After a few minutes, she caught her breath and tried for the door again.

“It’s too far,” she said.

“You have to go up more steps,” he pointed.

“Steps…,” she said. “Right.” She looked down, took a step with her foot, but not the rest of her body, and fell back against Jack again. 

“Whoops!” she squealed, then started laughing again. 

“Phryne,” Jack laughed as he pushed her up. “C’mon, just a few more steps.”

“Right, steps,” she said, grabbing the railing and letting Jack push her up. They managed to get to the top step and Jack unlatched the door. In the same moment, Phryne reached for the door to lean on and when it swung out, she fell forward onto the kitchen floor, peals of laughter echoing around the room. 

Smythe arrived just at that moment, with only a half-raised eyebrow to indicate any opinion on the matter. 

“All right, Miss, let’s get you up now,” he said, while Jack managed to stay on his feet and shut the door behind them. “Do you need me to help you up to your suite, Miss?” Smythe asked.

“I can make it,” she said, shaking off her dizziness but ending up tipping toward Jack. 

“I think I can get her up there, Smythe, but thank you,” Jack said. 

“Would you like to use the lift?” Smythe asked. 

“Lift?”

“Let’s ride the lift, Jack!” Phryne said, as if it was the Great Scenic Railway at Luna Park. 

“Excellent idea. Lead the way, Smythe,” Jack said. They followed the butler around to an alcove off the conservatory where he opened a door revealing a lift cage made of wrought iron. He pulled back the gate and they all got in. Smythe swung the handle and the lift rose to the second floor with smooth efficiency. 

“I’ll take it from here, Smythe,” Jack said once they were out in the second floor hall. 

“Anything else I can do for you tonight, Sir, Miss? Shall I start the fire in the grate?”

“No, I can manage. I think we’ll be fine from here, thank you.”

“Goodnight, then,” Smythe said with a subtle bow.

“Goodnight.”

“Phryne, where’s your key?” Jack asked.

“In my pocket of course,” she said, digging into both pockets at the same time. “Here’s one,” she said, holding up her left hand. “No key in this pocket though,” she held up her empty right hand and made a pout.

“I think this one will do,” Jack said, rubbing his eyes to make sure he could see the lock. Once inside, he guided her to the settee and helped her off with her coat. It was then he realized he was somehow still holding the bottle of rum. He set it on the table and turned toward the fireplace.

The hearth had been prepared for a fire, but Smythe had been unable to light it since she’d locked her door. Jack fumbled around for the matches and got the fire going. It was one skill he’d learned well enough to be able to manage in various states of intoxication.

“Have another drink, Jack,” Phryne said, holding out the uncorked bottle for him and licking her lips from the sip she’d just taken. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, taking the bottle and sitting next to her. The strong liquor seemed to go down a lot easier now, which he knew was dangerous. “We should probably not drink much more of this, or we’re going to pay for it tomorrow,” he said, finding it difficult to make his mouth form the words his brain was stringing together.

“We forgot to get glasses in the kitchen,” Phryne said.

“We haven’t needed any so far,” Jack replied. 

“Who needs glasses?” she said, taking the large section of the bottle in both hands and tipping it to her lips. 

“Sometimes I need them to read,” Jack said, although he didn’t know why he said it. He took the bottle from her, took a swig, re-corked it, and set it down on the table. 

“You do?” Phryne looked up at him curiously. 

“Do what?”

“Wear glasses.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Oh,” she seemed disappointed somehow. “But you would look cute in them,” she offered.

“Thank you, I think.”

“You look cute now,” she said, leaning against him. 

“Must be the rum talking,” he said. 

“That’s some smart rum, then,” she said, a flirtatious look coming over her face as she reached for Jack’s tie. “Time to loosen up,” she said, pulling at the knot until the tie was undone and she tossed it aside. Her experienced fingers only fumbled slightly as she undid his shirt buttons and spread his collar so she could kiss the soft skin in the hollow between his collar bones. His pulse quickened, and adrenaline started to fill his veins, fighting against the relaxing effects of the rum.

“Ah, Phryne,” he breathed, brushing his hands on her bare back above the low-cut neckline of her golden dress. 

“Let’s make love in front of the fire again tonight, Jack,” she said. 

“All right,” he said, trying to remember how he’d laid out the bedding. He got up slowly, steadying himself on the arm of the settee. He carefully made his way to her bedroom and pulled off pillows and blankets and somehow made it back to the parlor without tripping. 

Phryne looked up at him and laughed. 

“What?” he asked.

“You look funny.”

“Just a minute ago, you said I looked cute.”

“It’s both,” she said. She kicked her shoes off and stood up slowly to help him set out the bedding. When the bottom layer was done, she pulled her fur off the settee and handed it to him. “Lay this down, too.” 

A surge of excitement pulsed through Jack, imagining the ermine against his bare skin. He smoothed the full-length fur out over the blankets, then laid the duvet over top. Phryne managed to turn off the light and lock the door. Jack added two logs to the fire.

They stood on rum-wobbled legs to undress each other, and Jack was disappointed to see the golden dress on the back of the settee instead of on her. 

“Will you wear that dress again soon?” he asked.

“You really like it?”

“It’s gorgeous on you.”

“Then of course, I’ll find another occasion to wear it for you, my love.”

“But your birthday suit is still my favorite,” he breathed, running his hands up her sides to cup her breasts. She shivered as she clung to him, goosebumps rising all over her body.

“Take me down, Jack,” she whispered, and he slowly lowered her to lie on top of the fur in front of the fire. The ermine was smooth and soft against his skin, as was Phryne’s body, but in an entirely different way. They held each other close, touched each other with the languid movements of a couple of drowsy drunks, until Phryne fell asleep in his arms. He wasn’t far behind her. 

++++


	18. Chapter 18

CH 18  
++++

“Ohh, my head,” Phryne winced as she rolled over. “Jack?” Instinctively, she reached across the bed, but his side was empty. 

“Jack?” she called a little louder, but winced again at the sound of her own voice.

“Right here, my love,” he said, coming to sit beside her.

“Oh, good. You are Jack,” she said. 

“Were you expecting someone else?” He hoped not, but knew it was the hangover talking. His own was still a dull throb under his temples.

“Apparently, I’ve not always been accurate with names when I have a hangover,” she admitted, covering her eyes with the inside of her elbow, partly to block the light, partly to avoid looking at him. “It seems not everyone appreciates being called Jack.”

“Well, you may always call me Jack, hangover or not,” he assured her, feeling slightly smug that she’d used his name with other men. But his concern for her overrode any personal conceit.

“Can you sit up?” he asked her. “Would you like some water?”

“I think so, and yes,” she replied. He helped her to a sitting position and propped another pillow behind her. 

“Here you go,” he handed her a glass of water he’d placed on the nightstand earlier, and she took a sip. “There’s a headache powder here, too, if you want it.”

“Not just yet,” she said, her eyes still squinted shut. “Just sit here for a moment.” 

“Do you think you’re going to be sick?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” she said. “I’ll be all right soon. Can you ask for some coffee to be brought up?”

“Prissy brought some up just a little while ago,” he said. “Do you want me to bring it to you?”

“No, I’ll come sit out there with you,” she said. He steadied her as she got up and helped her with her robe and slippers. He guided her to the parlor and made her comfortable on the settee. He’d built up the fire again, and it crackled warmly. 

“Here you go,” he said, moving the table with the coffee tray close. “Cream and sugar?” he asked. 

“Just two lumps of sugar,” she said. He stirred them in for her and handed her the cup. “This is good,” she said, taking a sip. 

“Do you remember much about last night?” he asked. 

“I remember the archives, and the rum,” she began. “And lying by the fire on my fur,” she smiled softly at the memory. 

“That’s about all there is to remember,” he said. “We were both asleep within moments.”

“Like an old married couple,” she commented. “Did you carry me back to bed?”

“I did. Put you in your pajamas and tucked you in beside me,” he said. “That was about three am.”

The clock on the mantle softly chimed the half hour – eight-thirty – and Phryne sipped some more coffee. “I think I’ll take that headache powder now.”

“Coming right up,” Jack said and went to retrieve the medicine. Phryne picked up a scone from the coffee tray and took only a small bite. As hungry as she was, she didn’t want to give her stomach any reason to protest. 

“Here you are,” Jack said, handing her the folded paper. She tipped it onto her tongue and chased it with coffee.

“You’re looking comfortable,” Phryne said, noticing his clothes for the first time. She remembered the tan corduroys and cream sweater from their snowed-in trip to the Chalet at Mount Alexander last July.

“We don’t have anywhere to go today, so I felt this was more appropriate,” he explained. “They’re calling for a bit of snow this afternoon, so I figured we can hunker down here and work on sorting out the Liddell family history, and maybe the Maidstone financial situation.”

“After all the running around we’ve done the lately, it will be nice to stay in one place for the day,” she mused. 

“I thought so, too,” he said, leaning over to kiss the top of her head. 

“I want to read the journals we found, but not for a little while yet,” she rubbed her forehead.

“Just take your time,” Jack said, taking a seat on the ottoman in front of her and picking up her feet onto his lap. He took her left foot in both hands and started massaging it, pressing his thumbs deep into the muscles on the bottom near the ball of her foot. 

“Oh, that feels so good,” Phryne said, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back against the settee. 

“Remember the Chinese brothel I told you about?” he asked.

“We never did finish that conversation,” she said, opening one eye to peer at him. 

“Aside from the various ‘devices’ we encountered, questioning of the suspects gave me insight into the ancient Chinese practice of using pressure points to relieve pain.”

“You did not learn this technique just from questioning suspects,” Phryne stated between contented sighs and murmurs. “Who showed you how to do this?” 

“The proprietor herself, Li Meixiu, though she called herself The Lotus,” Jack explained. “After everyone was questioned and she was free to go, I asked her if she could help me with some shoulder pain I’d been experiencing since I’d injured it in training at the police academy. She invited me back to her house and treated me there. After several weekly visits, my shoulder felt good as new.”

“Several weeks?” Phryne was stunned. “Jack, how old were you?

“Twenty-one,” he said, switching to her right foot.

“Were you married yet?”

“Barely a year.”

“What about ‘a marriage is still a marriage’?”

“Rosie never knew.”

“Jack Robinson,” Phryne demanded. “I simply cannot believe that you would have cheated on Rosie for weeks at the tender age of twenty-one. You’re either lying to me, or leaving something out of the story.”

Jack looked up from his ministrations and grinned. “Meixiu was ninety years old.”

“Ninety?” Phryne said, realizing she’d been had. She grabbed a decorative pillow off the settee and lobbed it at his head. He ducked and laughed. 

“When she was talking in the interview room about a treatment she’d given to one of her customers for joint pain, I was intrigued,” Jack continued his story. “The detective inspector at the time gave me the job of driving some of the witnesses back to Little Lonsdale, so I arranged to drop her off last and asked her about it. She said she would give me four free treatments for my shoulder for being so nice. She knew she was still under suspicion, so I arranged for her to become an informant. Whenever the police needed information that she might know about, she’d give me another treatment for my shoulder. She died while I was fighting in France.” 

“You cultivated an informant while you were still only a cadet?” Phryne asked, impressed.

“The detective I reported to thought I had aptitude.”

“I’m sure you did, despite the trauma of your raid on the Chinese brothel.”

“I suppose one of these days we will have to finish that conversation,” he mused. 

“But not before breakfast,” she said, smiling. “Whatever you did, my head feels so much better and I’m starving.”

“Well, good, I’m glad.”

“So I’m going to get dressed and we can go downstairs and get some real food, and start digging in to those journals.”

+++

“Maybe before it snows we can go back out to the cemetery and try to find the headstone that bashed in the back of Loddy’s head,” Phryne was saying as she and Jack discussed the evidence over breakfast in the small family dining room, where they’d had dinner their first night together at Maidstone. “So we can confirm that’s how he received that injury, and also to see if we missed any other evidence.”

“I think you just want to beat me in another horse race,” Jack replied around a mouthful of omelete. 

“Well, I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to do so,” she grinned back at him. 

“You know, there’s another angle we haven’t been working on, either,” Jack said. “We haven’t been trying to figure out why both the victim and our suspect had a mill rind; Loddy on his arm and our suspect on his coat.”

“It’s too specific to be a coincidence,” Phryne agreed. “But the only one left in Loddy’s family is Lisa and we are fairly certain the killer was a man.”

“Don’t forget,” Jack lowered his voice and leaned toward her, “that Mrs. Nettles husband, Jackie, is Loddy’s cousin. Maybe we should interview him again.”

“Jackie Nettles didn’t strike me as the murderous type,” she replied, matching his tone. “And both he and Willie saw the suspect when he offered to take Loddy home, so it’s difficult to believe they were both in on it.”

“Still, there’s something we’re missing,” Jack said. “Some connection that ‘didn’t seem relevant’ at first.” He teased. 

Phryne ignored his taunt. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Nettles again, maybe reinterview the entire staff.”

“Phone call for you, Miss,” Smythe said. “It’s Inspector Howard from Whitehall.”

Phryne and Jack both went to the phone, and she held the handset between them so Jack could hear as well. 

“I’m sending a courier to Maidstone with some documents for you,” Chauncey said. “The final autopsy and toxicology reports on Mr. Loddington, and his half-brother Xander Liddell’s military records. Since you’re looking into the family connections, I thought that might be helpful.”

“Yes, thank you. When should we expect him?”

“He just left so he should be there in about an hour or so.

“Oh, good.”

“Any chance you two have found me a suspect?”

“Nothing solid yet, Chauncey, I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Chauncey said. “We’re close to arresting a suspect in the Julia Wallace murder, so the press has forgotten about Maidstone for the moment.”

“Find out if that suspect has any connection to our case. It was another brutal murder, so maybe it’s the same killer,” Phryne suggested.

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything,” Chauncey said. “But I wanted you on this Loddington murder because I knew it was going to be tricky. Don’t rush and be thorough.”

“We will, Chauncey,” she said and hung up.

“I should have thought about requesting those military records from the start,” Jack grumped, angry with himself. 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jack,” Phryne said. “We both had a lot on our minds that first day. Let’s just get started on solving this puzzle.” They spread everything out on the table and Smythe brought them some notepads and pencils and a fresh pot of tea. 

“I think I’ll start with Baron Liddell’s diary,” Jack said.

“And I’ll start with Alexander’s,” Phryne replied, turning a second chair her way and propping up her feet. As they read, they referenced the other information they had in the Ledger and shared passages with each other. 

“This is much more enjoyable than the caverns at the General Registry office,” Jack commented, sipping his tea. 

“But you’ll still be required to flirt with the keeper of the archives if you want further information,” Phryne teased, dangling the key to the padlock.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Jack said, smiling over his teacup.

“Listen to this, Jack,” Phryne said, reading from Alexander’s diary. “I can no longer abide my father’s constraints. I reached my majority last year and should be given a place in the peerage. Father needs to step down as Baron and allow me to take my rightful place. Antonia says this is the way England will grow, by letting the younger generation take the lead.”

“Sounds like Antonia was pressuring him and putting ideas in his head,” Jack said. “Listen to this: My son has not gained the maturity I would have hoped for his age. He is hot-headed and filled with fanciful ideas – no doubt many of them inspired by that woman he insists on keeping company with. I fear for the success and good order of Maidstone and the surrounding community if I transfer any leadership to him at all.”

“Classic generational dispute,” Phryne said. 

“I tend to trust the thoughts of the older, experienced Baron over that of his son,” Jack commented, seeing a lot of his own conservative tendencies in the Baron’s writings.

“Here’s more,” Phryne said. “Antonia has inspired me to take matters into my own hands. Her wisdom and sensibility give me hope for a glorious future together as Baron and Baroness of Aylesford. She will help me procure the necessary supplies to enact my plan. For me to have found such a partner, who equals my ambition and supports my goals, is surely a godsend!”

“Does that sound to you like a plot to assassinate the Baron?” Jack said, sitting up straight. Phryne nodded. 

“If he were found out, that would definitely be grounds for disinheritance and banishment,” she said.

“What do you think of this, then?” Jack said, reading from another page. “The huntress came round to my private parlor again today while Milady was out calling on friends. Thank God Alexander is traveling to France this month. The guilt overwhelms me, but I cannot resist her. There can be no good that comes from it, especially considering the two slain bucks in her past. Milady would possibly forgive, but my own young buck would most certainly attack.”

“If he’s trying to speak in code to cover his guilt, he’s doing a terrible job,” Phryne said. “The huntress is obviously Antonia Hunter, and the Baron knows his son would kill him if he found out his father was sleeping with his girlfriend.”

“Definitely a motive for murder,” Jack said.

“But so far Alexander is being led to believe his Father is oppressing him. There’s no indication in here that he’s aware of his Father’s infidelities with Antonia. What a tangled web,” she commented. “Fortunately, past or present, human nature hasn’t changed.”

“That’s it,” Jack said, a touch of excitement in his voice. “What’s past is prologue.” 

“Quoting Shakespeare again Jack?” Phryne said, arching an eyebrow.

“The line ‘What’s past is prologue’ is from The Tempest.” Jack explained. “In that scene, Antonio is trying to convince Sebastian to murder his father in his sleep in order to become king, and uses that line to say what’s in the past was all leading up to that moment, and now is the time to begin a new chapter.”

“You really are a Shakespeare man,” Phryne said, impressed. “How helpful that our own schemer is the similarly named Antonia. Fortunately the plan was thwarted.”

“The next question is, who is the father of Antonia’s baby, Lawrence James, the 8th Baron of Aylesford?” Jack mused, jotting some notes on his notepad. “The Baron, or Alexander?”

“Jack, what made your mind jump to that scandalous thought?”

“Human nature,” he replied. “And too many years in police work. The date of the Baron’s entry about the huntress is dated November 10th of 1849. Add nine months, and you’re at August of 1850. Lawrence James was born on August 5th, according to the information we found yesterday.”

“Full marks, Jack,” Phryne said. “Once it was discovered that Antonia was pregnant, she had to be sent away. I wonder if Alexander believed it was his child, since he named the boy after his father.” She flipped pages in Alexander’s diary. “Here it is,” she said. “I returned home from France, having fulfilled the Christmas shopping trip my parents sent me on. We filled the boat with fabrics and furniture, paintings and jewelry, and enough fancy foods and spirits to keep us entertained throughout the holiday season. Antonia greeted me with much warm affection upon my return to Maidstone, and we drank the cup of love all night long.”

“She certainly knew how to cover her bases,” Jack commented. 

“A clever and dangerous woman,” Phryne nodded. “Speaking of women,” Phryne mused as she turned pages. “There’s another woman we haven’t heard from in this drama.”

“Who?” Jack asked.

“Alexander’s sister, Victoria Jane.”

“I believe her journals were down there as well,” Jack nodded. 

“I’ll go see what I can find,” Phryne said, standing up. “Want to join me?”

“No, I think I’ll stay here in case the courier arrives. It’s been almost an hour.”

“Okay. If I’m not back in ten minutes, send a search party to the wine cellar,” she joked.

“Just be careful on the stairs,” Jack cautioned.

“I will,” she said, coming over to give him a brief kiss. 

The key was already in the pocket of her tweed pants, and she snugged her sweater closer around her in anticipation of the chilly basement. She took the box flashlight they’d used last night and carefully descended the stairs. 

She slid the key into the padlock then heard a sound down the hall, like the soft scrape of a shoe on stone. She looked up toward the sound, back in the direction of the stairs, but didn’t see anything. The other end of the hall past the stairs was food storage for produce and cured meats, so it was probably just Smythe or Mrs. Nettles getting something for lunch or dinner. 

She entered the archive room, taking the padlock with her as a precaution while chiding herself for being paranoid. She easily found Victoria’s journals and selected the one for 1850. She looked around to see what else might be interesting or shed light on the mystery and her eyes fell on the sword. She decided to take it up to hang above the mantle in the parlor. She could easily spend hours poking around, but it was cold and there was a case to solve, so she forced herself to leave. 

The lights were off when she stepped into the hall, but she shrugged. Mrs. Nettles had probably turned them off when she went back up with whatever she’d come down to retrieve, and Phryne had her own light. With the sword under her arm and Victoria’s small journal in the pocket of her sweater, she snapped the lock shut then turned toward the stairs. A bright light shone in her face and she cried out in surprise, dropping her own lamp which promptly went out. 

“Who’s there?” she said loudly, covering her eyes, trying to see who it was. 

“Give me the key!” a man with a raspy voice ordered.

“What key?” Phryne challenged moving closer in defiance. 

“The key!” he shouted and struck her arm with a long heavy object. Phryne cried out in pain and surprise, but wasn’t deterred. She would have to fend this attacker off herself because no one would hear her call for help. 

“Get back!” she ordered in return, brandishing the sword which was still in its scabbard. 

The man laughed and reached for the sword, but only managed to pull the scabbard off. Phryne’s hand was firm on the grip and the decorative hilt kept the sword itself in her grasp. She heard him shuffle backward as the blade glinted in the light which he kept firmly trained on her face. 

“Who are you?” she demanded. 

The man’s answer was to lunge toward her with a grunt. Phryne swung the sword and it caught in the length of wood the attacker was using. They grunted and pulled on their weapons, drawing them close to each other and Phryne could see the man’s face was covered by a scarf up to his eyes. 

She kicked forward, aiming for his groin, connecting with his shin instead, and he yelped in pain. The sword came free of the attacker’s weapon, a cricket bat she saw now, and he swung it again. Phryne ducked and the bat hit the wall, and the light came off her face. She swung the sword, heard fabric rip, and the man howled in pain. 

Enraged, he let his light fall to the ground and came after her again, two hands on the cricket bat this time, holding it above his head. Phryne crouched low, anticipating his move, and held the sword up to protect her head. Her eyes darted up and down, trying to take in everything she could about his appearance. At the last second, the attacker swung the bat out to the side in a looping movement, avoiding the sword and connecting a glancing blow to her head. 

She cried out in pain, dropped the sword with a clatter and finally called for help. 

“Jack! JACK!”

“PHRYNE?!” came his reply, and two sets of footsteps registered before she lost consciousness: her attacker’s as he ran toward the end of the hall and around a corner, and Jack’s as he sped down the stairs and the hall toward her.

+++

“Phryne! Phryne!” Jack said her name as he cradled her in his lap, willing her to open her eyes. “C’mon, Phryne, wake up, my love. Please.” His voice cracked but he shoved his emotions down to deal with the task at hand. He’d been able to get her light back on and it shed a low pool of warmth on the cold stone floor around them. There was blood in her hair and on her sweater and trickling down her forehead, but he couldn’t tell how badly she’d been hurt. 

He’d come looking for her after ten minutes, as she’d suggested, needing a break anyway. When he opened the door to the basement stairs and the lights didn’t come on, he knew something was wrong. The sounds of a scuffle reached him, and he’d grabbed the small flashlight and started down. Her cry of pain had pierced his heart and her desperate calling of his name had twisted his gut. He had hollered for Mrs. Nettles to get Smythe and hurry, then flown down the stairs as quickly as he could. 

He heard the footsteps running away, but his only concern was Phryne. She was crumpled in a heap outside the door of the archives with the Baron’s sword lying next to her. He collected her onto his lap and touched her neck with a trembling hand. Her strong, steady pulse against his fingers brought a quiet sob of relief and he held her close and kissed her forehead. He did his best to make her comfortable until Smythe and the others could sort out how to move her upstairs. 

“Jack,” she whispered, turning her head and crying out in pain.

“Shh, don’t move, my love,” he said, stroking her cheek, deeply grateful she was coming to. 

“Jack, it was him,” she tried to say.

“Shh,” he advised her again. “We’ll get you upstairs and comfortable and then you can tell us all about it.”

“Jack…,” she whispered, grabbing his hand. “I love you,” she managed, then slipped into unconsciousness again. Jack gulped and forced back another sob, though he couldn’t prevent a few tears from escaping. 

Smythe had taken stock of the situation quickly, then called Gordon in from the barn. They were bringing in a folding wooden chair to carry her out the back door of the basement and around to the kitchen door to avoid the stairs. Smythe had brought down several blankets to wrap around her and an old towel to wrap around her head. Once they had settled her in the chair, Jack and Gordon carried her out. 

The cold, damp air seemed to rouse her and she called for Jack. 

“Right here,” he said, carrying the front legs of the chair so he could keep an eye on her while they hauled her out of the basement. “We’re taking you back inside in a moment.”

“Jack, I saw it, on his coat,” she said.

“Saw what?” Jack said, intrigued, but concentrating on keeping the chair balanced. 

“The pin on his coat,” she said. “What’s it called, I can’t remember.”

“The mill rind?” Jack asked.

“Yes, that’s it,” she smiled almost dreamily, and passed out again. 

+++


	19. Chapter 19

CH 19  
++++

“Phryne,” Jack said, his voice husky with deep concern. “Come on, wake up my love.” He knelt next to her and held her hand as Smythe and Mrs. Nettles attended to her wound. Normally her bright red lips were a jaunty and tempting counterpoint to her creamy skin, but the blood that was still trickling along her cheek cut an angry path across her pale, waxen face. It was a discordant image Jack would not forget. “Phryne,” he continued to urge, willing his voice not to crack. “Wake up, now, come on.”

They had set the chair down near the large hearth in the kitchen where there were plenty of supplies on hand, warmth and good lighting. Henry and Margaret sat nearby, his arm around her while she twisted a handkerchief in her hands and whispered a prayer. The family doctor in London had been called and would be arriving in a few hours. 

“She’s taken a good chuck to the noggin,” Smythe said. “But only a glancing blow it seems. Broke the skin, but doesn’t appear to be any major damage.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Jack said as Smythe pressed gently on her skull.

“She may need some stitches, however. We’ll let the doctor decide that. In the meantime,” he reached out for the bag of crushed ice offered by Mrs. Nettles and held it gently to Phryne’s head, “we’ll keep the swelling down as best we can.”

“Jack,” Phryne whispered, turned her head toward him and winced. He was filled with relief to see her eyes flutter open.

“I can’t believe you got into a fight without me,” he teased gently.

“Did you catch him?” she asked.

“No, he got away,” Jack said. “But we’ll find him, don’t worry.”

“It was him, Jack,” she said. “The man with the pin on his coat.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I could see it shining on his lapel. And he was wearing nice shoes and trousers.”

“Did you see his face?” Jack asked.

“Just his eyes, he had the scarf up over his nose like the fellow from the Fox Den said.”

“Do you know what he hit you with?” Jack was loath to ask her too many questions, for fear she’d tire too quickly and slip into unconsciousness again, but he needed information so he could catch her attacker.

“A cricket bat.” She reached up to touch her head gently and winced again. Jack was glad the attacker hadn’t been wielding a shovel.

“All the doors and windows are locked, Inspector,” Gordon reported as he and Prissy jogged into the kitchen. I secured the basement and the first floor, and Prissy took care of the second and third.”

“That’s a lot of windows and doors. Good work, thank you,” Jack said. 

“Found this outside the entrance to the root cellar,” Gordon said, reaching into his pocket. He opened his hand and there was the mill rind pin. It was a stick-through pin, and was missing the back clasp.

“Even better work, Gordon. Phryne, look,” Jack said, taking the pin from Gordon and showing it to her.

“That’s it. I told you it was him,” she said.

“I believed you, this is just confirmation,” he assured her and asked Smythe for an envelope.

“So are we goin’ to go get this bloke, Inspector?” Gordon asked, fidgeting for revenge.

“Eventually, Gordon,” Jack assured him, “he’s probably long gone by now. Has anyone gotten the lights working down in the basement yet?” Jack asked, standing up and taking charge. He could see that Phryne was going to be alright, so he was able to switch his mind to catching her attacker.

“Jacques did,” Gordon said.

“Who is Jacques?”

“My valet,” Henry piped up. “You haven’t met him yet.”

“Did someone call me?” said a young man coming up from the basement right then.

“Jacques?” Jack asked.

“Jacques Laurent, the Baron’s valet,” the young man said with a slight bow and a French accent. “Inspector Robinson, I presume?”

“Nice to meet you Jacques. You got the lights working again downstairs?”

“Oui, someone had cut the line, but I spliced it and they’re working again now.”

“Excellent, now –” Jack began but was cut off by a young woman in a maid’s outfit entering from the hall.

“Miss Fisher, there’s a Constable from London here to see you,” the girl said.

“Thank you, Fee,” Phryne said weakly from the folding chair. “Jack will you go?”

“Better yet, let’s bring him in. Fee is it?” he asked the girl.

“Fiona, sir,” she curtseyed. “The Baroness’s lady’s maid.”

“Fiona, please bring the Constable back to the kitchen,” Jack said, and she curtseyed again, spun on her heel and left. Jack caught Jacques eyeing her as she went. 

“Smythe, did you serve?” Jack asked, knowing the man would understand the question.

“Second Boer War, sir. The Buffs, East Kent Regiment. 3  
Battalion in Africa.”

“What guns are in the house?”

“A few hunting rifles, two old Lee-Enfields, and a few pistols for target practice.”

“Good. I want you and Gordon to arm up, then determine the closest footpath from the root cellar door to the nearest property fence and secure that area. Look for footprints or anything on the ground that would indicate someone moving quickly off the property.” Smythe and Gordon nodded their ‘yes, sirs’ and hustled out.

“Sir?” the constable had arrived in the kitchen. “Inspector Robinson?” The constable looked Jack up and down. “Is that blood?”

“Yes, Miss Fisher suffered a blow to the head earlier. What’s your name, Constable?”

“Graves, sir.”

“Constable Graves, you and Jacques and I will head back down to the basement and inspect the crime scene.”

“Crime scene?”

“Yes, Miss Fisher was attacked by, we believe, the same man who murdered the victim in that autopsy report you’ve brought us.”

“Oh,” Graves said, suddenly grim, and looked from Jack to the folder to Phryne. “I’m so sorry Miss, but I’m very glad you survived the encounter.”

“So am I,” she said. “You can leave those documents with me while you help the Inspector.” She held out her hand and Graves handed them over.

“Miss Fisher,” Jack said, coming to kneel next to her once more, the formality of her name coming naturally when he was in duty mode. “Did any of the fight happen in the archives room itself?”

“No, just in the hallway. I had already put the lock on the door.”

“Good,” Jack said. “We’ll be back. You hang in there.” She squeezed his hand and nodded. “All right, Jacques, Graves,” Jack said standing up. “Let’s go.”

Jack led the way down the stairs, followed by Graves then Jacques, shining the wooden box light into the gray gloom. The lights were on, thankfully, but no brighter than Jack remembered them. When they reached the bottom, he turned right toward the archives and shone the light all around. Graves had taken a small light off his belt and looked around, too. 

“What are we looking for?” Jacques asked.

“Evidence,” Graves said. 

“What kind of evidence?”

“The thing about evidence, Jacques,” Jack explained, “is that you don’t always know what you’re looking for until…,” Jack paused and squatted to pick up something. “You find it,” he finished his sentence and held up the small piece of paper for Graves to shine his light on it. “Well, fancy meeting you here Nigel Bolsover, of Hastings, Basset, Partridge & Bolsover, Fiduciary Partners, Ltd,” he read out loud then flipped the business card over. “Maidstone, Tuesday.” 

“Today’s Tuesday,” Graves said. 

“Correct. A reminder or sharing of information?” Jack wondered aloud, noticing the handwriting was quite different than the card they’d found at the Fox Den Saturday night. He also wondered why Nigel’s business cards kept showing up wherever the suspected murderer did. Graves was jotting in his notebook, for which Jack was glad.

“Look,” Jacques said, pointing at the wall. 

Jack held the light up and saw a smear of blood about chest high. His heart wrenched, thinking of Phryne’s head wound, but a closer look showed black fibers caught on the rough edges of the stones. Phryne’s sweater that day was a golden yellow. He looked around the hallway again. 

“If Miss Fisher was attacked after she left the archives room and was heading back to the stairs, she would have been facing that way,” he turned and motioned his arm toward the root cellar end of the hall. “Her head wound is on the left side of her head so it wouldn’t have hit the wall to her right,” he reasoned. 

“It also indicates the attacker was right-handed,” Graves noted. 

“Correct,” Jack mused, looking around more. “So this blood on the wall is the attacker’s blood, which means Miss Fisher was able to get a blow in herself.”

“With what?” Jacques asked.

“The sword,” Jack said. “She was holding the sword commissioned for the 4  
Baron of Aylesford in 1771. Though I don’t know why she had retrieved it from the archives.”

“Where is the sword now?” Graves asked.

“In the kitchen,” Jack said, crouching again.

“So we have a right-handed attacker with a sword wound on his left bicep, probably,” Graves said, jotting it down.

“These small pools of blood were where Miss Fisher’s head wound dripped,” he said, swallowing hard and clearing his throat. He had collected her in his arms and held her while leaning against the opposite wall. He closed his eyes and silently thanked God for bringing him down the stairs at that moment, or the attacker would have surely finished her off, and no one upstairs would have heard a thing.

“Jacques,” Jack said standing up. “Could you tell what was used to cut the wire for the lights?”

“Yes, it appears to have been a wire snipping tool, blades on both sides, pinched the wire across the middle. If it had been a knife, it would have looked more sliced, on an angle.”

“Were any other wires cut that you could tell?”

“Just that one.”

“What’s your experience with wiring?” Jack asked.

“My father is an electrician in Normandy,” Jacques replied. 

“Let’s check out the other end of the hallway,” Jack said and they walked toward the food stores and root cellar. Graves swept his small flashlight across the floor as they walked, then zeroed in on something.

“Inspector, look,” Graves crouched down and aimed his light closer. “The back clasp of a pin.” He picked it up and handed it to Jack.

“Perfect. We have the pin itself upstairs.” Jack put the little metal piece in the extra envelope he’d brought with him.

Jacques showed Jack and the constable where the root cellar door had been left open. The regular door, with the exterior ramp that Jack and Gordon had used to carry out Phryne, had been locked and Smythe had to use a key to let them out. But the slanted, wooden root cellar door did not have any locks, and had been unsecured prior to Phryne being attacked. Gordon had firmly secured the door from the inside until a proper interior lock could be added.

Jack scanned the room again, looking for more evidence of the attacker. Glancing over the vegetables strewn across the floor, he noticed a couple were smashed. 

“What do you make of this, Constable?” Jack asked, crouching down. Graves crouched with him and looked at the squashed squash. 

“A footprint,” he said.

“Even better, a shoe print. One that can be matched,” Jack said, the familiar flicker of excitement dancing in his stomach upon finding a valuable piece of hard evidence. “Get a box or something to carry this in,” he said. Graves found a large enough cardboard box and Jack ripped off one of the flaps to slide under the squash to keep the print from breaking apart. Then he set it carefully in the bottom of the box. 

They looked at the rest of the smashed vegetables, but none of the others had enough of a print or were just too smashed to make anything out. 

“Great work, gentlemen,” Jack said to his intrepid crew. “Let’s get back upstairs and then Graves and I can meet up with Smythe and Gordon.

“Any luck?” Henry asked as the three reentered the kitchen.

“Yes, quite a bit, actually,” Jack allowed. “We found the back of the pin, we found a shoe print in a squash,” Jack waved at Graves, carefully carrying the box over to the counter so as not to ruin the shoe print. “And we found this,” he handed the card to Phryne.

“Nigel,” she said, curiosity filling her voice. “Maidstone, Tuesday,” she read off the back. “Jack, that wasn’t Nigel down there with the cricket bat.”

“You’re sure?”

“Not tall enough,” she said.

“Well, someone with access to Mr. Bolsover’s business cards sure likes dropping them in curious places,” Jack commented. “How’s your head feeling?”

“And I thought my hangover was bad,” she remarked dryly.

“We’re going to go meet up with Smythe and Gordon, see if they’ve found the attacker’s escape route, or any new evidence.” 

“I had Prissy and Fee get coats for you,” Phryne said. Prissy handed Jack another one of Henry’s winter coats, and Fiona handed Jacques his own coat. Constable Graves was already wearing a heavy police-issue uniform coat. Jack peeled off his sweater so as not to get blood on the inside of the coat, and Prissy promised to remove the stain. The men trundled out the side kitchen door and toward the root cellar door to begin their search. 

Jack could see where the attacker had come and gone, with similar shoe prints as they’d found in the squash inside. He also noticed a set of footprints on either side of the attacker’s, where Smythe and Gordon tracked him without stepping on the trail. The three of them followed the gravel path away from the house toward the cricket pitch and the eastern border of the property. 

“Inspector, look,” Graves said, pointing at the ground. Jack crouched and touched the dark spot with his finger, sniffed it, then smeared the fluid between his index finger and thumb. 

“Blood. Good eye, Graves. Look for more,” he said and they moved on. There were more drops of blood, as well as footprints, and they followed them all the way to the fence where Smythe and Gordon were waiting.

“I don’t suppose you saw him, did you?” Jack asked them.

“No, long gone,” Smythe said. “Did you see the blood?”

“Graves spotted it, and we followed it here.”

“There’s some on the fence where he squeezed through, and some on the ground on the other side of the fence. Looks like the blood and footprints lead to those tire tracks.”

Jack looked over the fence at the tire tracks. “From the way the front tires are turned, it seems he could have parked and left his car here. Someone would have had to have seen it,” he mused.

“What’s that, Inspector?” Jacques said, pointing to a large dark spot that would have been under where the car was parked.

“Go have a look, Constable,” Jack said and Graves climbed through the fence. He carefully stepped to where the spot was and did the same sniff and smear test that Jack had with the blood.

“Motor oil,” Graves said. “Quite a lot of it, too. How long do you think the bloke was on the property?”

“Could have been anywhere from one to several hours,” Jack said, calculating the time to walk or run from the fence to the basement, attack Phryne, and run back. “No telling how long he was lying in wait in the house.”

“If it was a minimum of one hour, this would be a good amount of oil,” Graves said. “Enough to freeze up his engine, especially in this cold weather.”

“And getting colder by the minute,” Gordon said. “Look,” he held out his hand as snow began to fall. 

“Constable,” Jack directed, quickly assessing the situation. “Make a drawing of this area, including the fence, tire tracks, oil spot, footprints and blood drops before the snow covers the evidence.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Smythe, do you have a specific number of cricket bats at the clubhouse? Would you notice if one was missing?”

“Not sure, sir, but I’ll look to see if anything seems amiss,” Smythe said and turned to head back toward the cricket pitch.

“Meet you back at the house,” Jack said, then turned to Gordon. “Any other evidence left behind?”

“No nothing that we saw,” Gordon replied.

“Done, sir,” Graves announced. 

“Good, let’s head back.” They trudged back toward the house, Jack bringing up the rear. He paused for a moment when they were in view of the expanse of the property. The snow was falling in earnest now, making it difficult to see the pond from this distance. “The only other sound’s the sweep of easy wind and downy flake,” he whispered, quoting Robert Frost. A quiet moment of beauty in an otherwise disquieting day.

++++


	20. Chapter 20

CH 20  
++++  
  
“A couple constables from Aylesford are going ‘round the neighborhood to find out if anyone had seen the car parked next to the fence,” Jack said, going over the day’s events with Inspector Howard while Doctor Schuster was examining Phryne. “They’re also interviewing local auto mechanics who might have provided anyone with oil service. Graves is calling around to any local medical personnel who might have given stitches to a man with a wound on his left arm. When he’s finished, I’m sending him back with the shoeprint evidence and the sword. Hopefully you can still make a cast from the print and get a blood type from the sword.”  
  
“What about the roads?” Howard asked. “You’d said it was snowing.”  
  
“It’s not sticking to the roads,” Jack replied. “Doctor Schuster arrived from London right before I called you and he said that so far the roads were fine.”  
  
“Well, send Graves on before too long. If the temperature drops, it could get icy.”  
  
“Will do. Thank you for sending him,” Jack added. “Graves is smart and observant.” They said their goodbyes and Jack ascended the stairs to check in on the doctor’s progress. Phryne had been moved up to her suite via the elevator and she was still in the folding chair while the doctor worked.  
  
Jack leaned quietly on the door frame as the doctor made the last few stitches to Phryne’s wound. He winced, his gut twisting, remembering his own, often unpleasant, experiences with stitches. She was clenching a rolled up flannel in her teeth as the doctor worked, her eyes squinted shut, one hand gripping the chair the other gripping her mother’s. Seeing her in pain was awful, but there was nothing Jack could do for her but stand by and wish it wasn’t happening, wish it was his own head being stitched and not hers.  
  
Guilt came roaring in from the back of his mind. He couldn’t have known she’d be in danger in her own basement, so he had declined to go down with her. If he had gone, he could have fought the attacker instead and protected her from harm. His stomach churned at the thought of her pain and he swallowed hard. His fists clenched tightly inside his pockets as he fought off the regret, choosing to be grateful he’d gone down when he did.  
  
The doctor knotted the last stitch and snipped the thread, then motioned for Prissy to apply the bandage.  
  
“All finished, Miss Fisher,” Dr. Schuster said and patted Phryne’s shoulder, and her face and hands relaxed. She spit out the cloth as if in disgust that she wasn’t tough enough to not need it, then took a long, deep breath. When she exhaled, tears of relief filled her eyes, and spilled down her cheeks when her lashes fluttered closed.  
  
“It’s all right now, darling,” Lady Margaret said, patting her daughter’s hand and wiping Phryne’s tear-stained cheeks with a handkerchief. Phryne’s interaction with her mother was so childlike in that moment, fearful, but trusting and grateful. Jack suddenly felt the loss of his own mother like a cold stone in his gut as he recalled her tender care in his boyhood.  
  
“She’s all yours, Inspector,” Dr. Schuster said quietly as he exited the bathroom, interrupting Jack’s thoughts, forcing him to focus.  
  
“Thank you, Doctor,” Jack said. He relaxed his hands, shoulders and face through sheer force of will, and sauntered slowly over to crouch down next to Phryne.  
  
“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.  
  
“Like I’ve been hit over the head with a cricket bat,” she said, half a smirk appearing on her face.  
  
“I’m just glad it was you and not him that had the sword,” Jack said.  
  
“Lot of good it did me,” she said.  
  
“You sliced his arm,” Jack told her.  
  
“Did I?” she said, surprised. Her memory of the fight was still patchy.  
  
“Slashed right through his coat sleeve, and his arm brushed against the wall leaving a long smear of blood. You aren’t the only one getting stitches today.”  
  
“Let’s see if we can get her on her feet,” Dr. Schuster said. “Move her to the bed.” Jack and the doctor helped Phryne up slowly.  
  
“Ow!” she cried when Jack gripped her left arm. “It’s all right,” she said seeing the sudden shock and worry on his face. “He hit me there, too.”  
  
“Just a contusion,” Dr. Schuster said. “Will be painful for a week or so , but nothing serious.”  
  
Phryne wobbled on her feet, leaning on Jack as she pushed through the dizziness, and they led her slowly toward her bed. Prissy had turned down the covers and fluffed the pillows, and Phryne sank into the soft mattress with a heavy sigh.  
  
“She’ll need 48 hours rest,” Dr. Schuster said. “Keep her in bed as much as possible.” He looked at Jack, Prissy and Lady Margaret with seriousness. “I’ll come back out on Thursday to check on her. Change the bandage twice a day and use this poultice,” he handed Prissy a small jar. “Also, here is a small amount of morphine if she experiences severe pain,” he handed the bottle to Jack. Call me immediately if there is severe dizziness, nausea, or double vision. I believe there may be a minor concussion, but we’ll know more in a few days. I suspect she’ll be back to normal in a week.”  
  
“Thank you, Doctor,” Jack said, and was echoed by Prissy and Lady Margaret.  
  
“I’ll see you out, Doctor,” Lady Margaret said, and they left the room, followed by Prissy, leaving Jack and Phryne alone.  
  
Phryne held her arms out to him. “Jack,” she said, her voice wavering, threatening to break. He moved quickly to her side, and took her gently in his arms. Her body shook involuntarily, craving his closeness. A sob finally escaped, followed by more, her tears soaking into his shirt as the tension and emotions tumbled out of her.  
  
“It’s all right, my love,” Jack soothed. “I’m right here, I’m not letting go.” His words cascaded over her heart like warm water, filling her with peace. This only caused her to cry more, as all the heavy emotions of the past few days freed themselves from her subconscious. Joy and pain, past and present, all of it found release in Jack’s arms and in the circle of protection he provided for her heart.  
“Oohh, my head hurts,” she moaned as the last of her sobs ebbed away.  
  
“Let’s lie you back against the pillow, then,” Jack said, but Phryne kept her hold on him.  
  
“No,” she said softly. “I just want to hold you.”  
  
“I tell you what,” Jack said. “I’ll come around the other side and sit with you, all right?” She nodded and loosened her arms. Jack stood, kicked off his shoes and went to the other side of the bed.  
  
“Do you need anything first? A drink of water or one of the morphine pills?”  
  
“No, just you,” she said, looking small and frail as she hugged herself, waiting for his embrace to return.  
  
He climbed in and moved close, wrapping his arms around her and letting her lean against his chest. She settled herself with a contented sigh, wrapping her arm around his middle. He noticed that at some point they had removed her yellow sweater and changed her shirt, both of which had been stained with blood, and she was now wearing pajamas. Her face had been washed, and the only indication of injury was the bandage wrapped around her head.  
  
Her hair had been parted near her wound and pinned to the other side to expose her skin for the stitches, then the bandage was wrapped around from there, giving her characteristic bob a lopsided look. Not that Jack cared. The main thing was the good prognosis from the doctor and the fact that she was alive and tucked into his embrace. He wondered if he’d ever forgive himself for allowing this to happen.  
  
To distract himself from his guilt, he forced himself to think about all the clues and evidence they had on their suspect so far and tried to sort out what they all meant and how they fit together. The one thing he kept coming back to was Nigel Bolsover’s business card. It was the only solid link they had to the identity of the suspect. But if it wasn’t Nigel, who was it? Jack didn’t know enough about Nigel or his associates to come to any conclusions, but he knew he would have to travel to London to investigate further. He hated to leave Phryne alone, again, but he was worried the trail would go cold if he waited until Friday. He would leave first thing in the morning.  
  
After a while, Prissy poked her head in to check on things, but gasped and turned quickly at the sight of Jack and Phryne in bed.  
  
“It’s all right, Prissy,” Phryne said, lifting her head and calling the young woman back in.  
  
“I just wanted to see if you’d like tea brought up, Miss,” she said. “It’s that time.”  
  
Phryne looked up at Jack, who didn’t have to say anything as his stomach rumbled at that exact moment. She allowed a small laugh. “Yes, Prissy, tea and some sandwiches or other nibbles will be fine,” she said.  
  
“Yes, Miss,” Prissy curtseyed and left.  
  
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Jack said with a quiet smile when they were alone again.  
  
“That doesn’t mean I can’t have afternoon tea,” she countered. “And frankly, I’m hungry, too.”  
  
“That’s a good sign,” he said, kissing her gently on the forehead. “And now there’s something I must discuss with you,” he began.  
  
“You’re going back to London first thing in the morning, by yourself,” she said.  
  
“How did you know?”  
  
“Because I know you, Jack Robinson. Catching bad guys is your raison d’etre.”  
  
“Actually,” he said, tipping her chin up with his knuckle. “My raison d’etre is loving you, and if that means going after the bastard who did this to you, then so be it.”  
  
“Lucky for me, you have lots of experience in catching bad guys,” she replied.  
  
“Quite right. But yes, I was thinking of leaving early in the morning. I don’t want to leave you, after what happened today, but there’s no way you can travel for a few days, and you’ll be safe here now.”  
  
“We should talk about the case and go over all the evidence tonight so you’ll have it all fresh in your mind.”  
  
“After tea, Miss Fisher,” Jack said, as Prissy rolled in the tea cart. “If you’re feeling up to it.” Jack thanked Prissy and excused her, but Lady Margaret appeared in the doorway.  
  
“Pardon me for intruding,” Lady Margaret said. “But I just wanted to see how you were, darling.”  
  
“It’s fine, Mother, come in,” Phryne said, and Lady Margaret sat at the end of the bed while Jack got up to serve tea. “My head doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, but that’s probably the morphine talking.”  
  
Jack explained his plans to return to London early in the morning, and handed Lady Margaret the bottle of morphine pills. “Make sure she doesn’t overindulge,” he said.  
  
“Honestly, Jack, I’m not an addict,” Phryne protested with a roll of her eyes.  
  
“And I won’t have you starting now,” he said.  
  
“So what did you and your impromptu scout patrol find outside?” Phryne asked, sipping her tea.  
  
“The attacker left a trail of blood all the way to a fence on the eastern edge of the property,” Jack explained. “It appears he had left a vehicle waiting, and that vehicle leaked a good bit of oil. Smythe found the cricket bat in some bushes nearby. A couple constables from Aylesford are tracking down leads on the car, and Constable Graves was calling round to see if anyone stitched up a man’s arm today.”  
  
“You have a small army at your fingertips here, Jack,” Phryne smiled at him from behind her teacup, impressed again by his leadership abilities.  
  
“Speaking of Graves, do you know if he’s left yet, Lady Margaret?”  
  
“I believe Mrs. Nettles was fortifying him with sandwiches for his return trip to London.”  
  
“I’m going to catch him before he leaves,” Jack said standing up and dropping a kiss on Phryne’s cheek. “I’ll be back,” he promised.  
  
“Oh, Phryne,” Lady Margaret said, after Jack left the room. “He’s so good to you.”  
  
“Yes, he is,” Phryne smiled shyly. “But then, he’s good to everyone. That’s just his nature.”  
  
“I watched him with you in the kitchen when they first brought you in,” Lady Margaret went on. “He was so worried about you, so tender with you. Then when he knew you were in good hands, and the doctor was on the way, he took charge like a general, giving everyone orders and going after the evil man who attacked you. It was glorious!”  
  
“It kind of was, wasn’t it?” Phryne grinned, sharing a giggle with her mother. Inside, however, her stomach tingled as she recalled the numerous times she’d seen Jack take charge and give orders. That expression of authority made her want to misbehave in the most indecent way, if only so Jack would take charge and give her some indecent orders - after her head wound was healed, of course.  
  
“Do you think you’ll be interested in dinner, my dear?” Lady Margaret was asking.  
  
“Of course I will,” Phryne said, reaching for another sandwich from the tea tray. “But I probably won’t come downstairs. I’m afraid I’m going to be a little wobbly for a day or so.”  
  
“What’s this? Caution and restraint?” Lady Margaret teased her.  
  
“For now, yes,” Phryne admitted. “That was one nasty blow to the head.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad you’re here at Maidstone so we can all dote on you to ensure you’ll be feeling better in no time.”  
  
“Thank you, Mother,” Phryne reached over and squeezed her mother’s hand. “I am very glad to be here as well.”  
  
+++  
  
“May I hold on to these?” Jack asked Henry, who was showing him the investment statements for both Maidstone and his personal account. They were meeting in the study, a manly room lined with bookshelves punctuated by the heads of big game animals and other ancient memorabilia passed down from the Liddells to the Fishers.  
  
“Of course. I have nothing to hide from you now, Jack,” Henry said, topping off Jack’s whiskey and waving his hand in a broad gesture. “You and Phryne will take over all of this when I’m gone, so you might as well have access to it now.”  
  
Jack noted Henry including him in the family fortune, but the enormity of the thought would have to be pondered later. He had a dangerous suspect to catch and a smarmy investor to interrogate in the morning and he needed information.  
  
“And you haven’t had any interest disbursements in how long?” Jack asked.  
  
“The last two quarters,” Henry said. “We were supposed to receive one at the end of December, and the one prior to that at the end of September, but neither check arrived. When I called Lord Bolsover to inquire about it in September, he said he would look into it, but I never heard back. Then when the December check didn’t come, I called again and Bolsover said his son would call me back, but I still haven’t heard anything.”  
  
“Nigel?”  
  
“Yes, Nigel,” Henry said with a note of contempt. “Who would give their boy such a godawful name? Anyway, we have enough to cover all our expenses from my personal account, but we were going to use the Maidstone interest to complete some repairs on this old place.”  
  
“Do you keep a close eye on what is bought and sold through the account?” Jack asked.  
  
“Not really, unless I ask for something specific. Otherwise, I trust Bolsover to take care of it. That’s why I hired him.”  
  
“How well do you know him?”  
  
“He was Eugene’s investor so I kept him on. Since then, we’ve had a few drinks together, seen each other at parties in London, and he seems a capable chap if altogether impressed with his own accomplishments.”  
  
“What about his son, Nigel?”  
  
“Haven’t seen him since he was a youth, really, He used to accompany his father out here when the Baron and I would discuss business, and I think he had his eye on Phryne but nothing came of it.” Henry’s brow furrowed. “Do you think Nigel is up to something?  
  
“Not sure, but I’ll get to the bottom of it, sir,” Jack said.  
  
“Jack, I’ve asked you to call me Henry.  
  
“Yes, you have,” Jack nodded, still uncomfortable with the familiarity.  
  
There was a knock at the door and Smythe poked his head in. “Inspector, Miss Fisher is asking for you,” he said.  
  
“Thank you, Smythe,” Jack said.  
  
“Run along then,” Henry said to Jack with a wink. “I’ll say goodnight for now.”  
  
“Goodnight, sir – er – Henry,” Jack said, standing.  
  
“What time are you leaving in the morning?”  
  
“After breakfast,” Jack said.  
  
“I’ll see you before you leave then,” Henry said, shook Jack’s hand, and they went their separate ways. Jack folded the investment documents and tucked them in his pocket and headed up the stairs to see Phryne.  
  
“Were you looking for me, my love?” he asked as he entered the bedroom.  
  
“We were going to go over the case one more time, remember.”  
  
“If you’re up to it,” he said. “It is almost nine o’clock though.”  
  
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just get everything together on the bed.” She smoothed the sheets and Jack took the valise, the other folders, and the journals out of the cabinet they had been storing everything in. “What happened to the information Constable Graves brought with him today?” she asked.  
  
“Right here,” Jack said, handing her the two files.  
  
“Toxicology for me, military for you,” she handed him Xander Liddell’s file and he sat down next to her. They sat in silence for a few minutes, reading.  
  
“Nothing here,” Phryne sighed. “No drugs in his system, except copious amounts of beer. What have you got?”  
  
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right if I read this?” Jack asked.  
  
“I’ll be fine, please read,” she replied.  
  
“Sergeant Xander Liddell, the Queen’s Own Royal West Kent Regiment, enlisted 1908,” Jack read. “Which means he was regular army, not conscripted for the war.”  
  
“Does that make a difference?” Phryne asked.  
  
“Not when the enemy is shooting at you, but he chose the military, it didn’t choose him. Tells you something about his character.”  
  
“Go on,” Phryne said, nodding.  
  
“Presumed killed in action in October of 1918 near Romange,” Jack said. “That was during the Battle for the Meuse-Argonne.”  
  
“I thought you said he was working the mess tents outside Paris at that time,” Phryne said.  
  
“Looks like they sent his unit back toward the front,” Jack said, flipping pages. “They still needed meals at the front, and the field kitchens were becoming more efficient which helped the Allies in feeding the men.”  
  
“But how was he killed if he was in running a field kitchen?”  
  
“The Germans were getting desperate by then, and were shelling everything,” Jack explained and flipped back to the medical page again. “It was a direct hit and what was left of him was buried in France, just like Lisa Belmont said.”  
  
“So two dead-ends,” Phryne said, tossing the toxicology folder into the pile on the bed, and Jack did the same with the military file. “I can’t help feeling there’s something we’re missing, though.”  
  
“Like a suspect?” Jack said dryly.  
  
“Well, we have one of those, we just need to figure out who he is and catch him.”  
  
“Tell me about Nigel and his friends and associates,” Jack asked.  
  
“Nigel,” Phryne said, as if she’d tasted something nasty. “If he wasn’t connected to this case I would prefer to pretend he doesn’t exist.”  
  
“Unfortunately, your preferences don’t count in this context, Miss Fisher,” Jack replied.  
  
Phryne sighed. “Nigel is, as I’ve told you, insufferable. I’ve known him since we first moved here during the war and our fathers would get together to discuss financial business. Lord Bolsover would bring Nigel with him in an effort to teach him the business, but Nigel had no interest. We used to go riding, and then to parties at the Fox Den, but I was never interested in him.  
  
“Right after the war, he proposed to me,” Phryne said with a shudder. “A marriage of convenience, of course – Fisher landholdings, Bolsover money – and each of us allowed to discreetly pursue lovers of our choice. But a marriage would have put everything in his name. Neither I, nor my parents were interested in that.  
  
“Since I’ve been back, I’ve seen him at a party or two, with Philomena Partridge – she’s the daughter of one of the partners in the firm. She actually arrived as I was leaving yesterday, walked right past the secretary and started an argument with Nigel before slamming the office door. From what I understand they’re engaged, which would make logical sense for the Bolsovers and Partridges, I suppose. Keep the firm’s money within the firm. But, it’s another marriage of convenience – Nigel is a homosexual.”  
  
“I’m assuming since you’ve never had any interest in him, that you found that out some other way?” Jack queried, eyebrows raised.  
  
Phryne rolled her eyes but ignored his taunt. “When I was there, I saw a photograph on his desk of Nigel and Philomena, but when I moved it, I noticed there was another photograph behind that one. I was able to get a look at it, and it’s Nigel with another man, sitting in a rowboat, and the way Nigel is looking at the other man is quite telling.”  
  
“Who is the other man?”  
  
“I don’t recognize him, and I couldn’t think of a way to ask Nigel about it while I was there. I was trying to play the clueless female about the Maidstone financials, and didn’t want to give him the notion that I was more perceptive. Nigel is quite the misogynist, so I figured I’d use that to my advantage.”  
  
“That will give me something else to look into while I’m there. What else did you learn?”  
  
“From what I could tell, it looks like the Maidstone finances started going down a couple years ago when Nigel took over. His initials are on every trade document.”  
  
“Who are the authorized signers on the account? Just your father?”  
  
“Actually, Nigel said, ‘your father and’, as if he were going to say another name, but stopped. If there was another signer that Father didn’t know about, that would certainly be a problem. He’s known for signing things without paying very close attention to them. He could have signed a document allowing someone else access without realizing it. Which reminds me, I need to have him sign the paperwork to make me a principal on the account, and we can have him write a letter giving you access, as well.”  
  
“I’ll look to see if there’s a similar document in the Maidstone files,” Jack said. “Who else is associated with Nigel and his office that you know about?” he asked, continuing to build his mental picture of Nigel.  
  
“There was the secretary, but she seemed to be rather perfunctory and without a lot of influence. Then there’s Nigel’s valet, Harbell. He works at the firm during the day and served us in Nigel’s office while I was there. He also works at Nigel’s home a couple nights a week. Apparently Nigel’s former valet was too young and inexperienced for a man of Nigel’s stature – according to Harbell himself.”  
  
“Interesting,” Jack said. “Did you get a sense of him?”  
  
“He seemed nice enough. Claimed to be a war veteran, and has some physical infirmities, wears glasses, has a scar on his chin. Said Lord Bolsover took him on when no one else would. I did catch him eavesdropping when I was talking to Nigel before I left, but that’s typical for household staff.”  
  
“What were you talking about when you caught him?”  
  
“Finding Nigel’s business card associated with Loddington’s murder.”  
  
“Hmmm,” Jack mused.  
  
“Nigel said he didn’t know Loddington, or why his business card would be found in association with the murder, and I believed him. Like I said, Nigel is far too squeamish to even cut a rare steak, much less commit a murder like Loddington’s.”  
  
“Anything else unusual that you noticed?”  
  
“When I first arrived, Nigel offered me a drink, so I had a few sips of whiskey. I looked for my glass on my way out to finish the drink, but it was gone. Nigel’s glass was still there, but mine was gone. I suppose Harbell collected it, thinking I was finished, but that Nigel would probably drink out of the same glass all day.”  
  
“That makes sense, but why clear the glass before you left the office?”  
  
“Right. Unless he was just being fastidious.”  
  
“Could be,” Jack said, the gears turning in his mind, but for the moment he couldn’t see how they were clicking together.  
  
“Jack, you don’t think Harbell has anything to do with it? He can barely shuffle around the office with a tea tray, much less wield a shovel or cricket bat.”  
  
“You know as well as I do that things aren’t always what they seem,” Jack reminded her.  
  
“Then Harbell should have been an actor instead of a soldier,” Phryne replied.  
  
“Well,” Jack said, “I believe I have plenty to go on when I visit Mr. Bolsover tomorrow. Hopefully, I can find the connection.” He reached over to pull her close and kissed her on the top of her head.  
  
“I hope so, too,” she said, leaning into his embrace.  
  
“How’s your head?”  
  
“The throbbing has gone down. It’s really not as painful as I thought it was going to be.”  
  
“I’m glad,” Jack said. “But it will be tender for a while. And Doctor Schuster isn’t wrong to be concerned about a possible concussion.”  
  
“So far I’m only seeing one of you,” she said. “Not sure I could handle two,” she gave him a small, sly smile.  
  
“I’m sure you’d handle both of us expertly,” he assured her.  
  
“Help me up, Jack,” she said. “I need to use the bathroom.” Jack helped her out of bed and across the parlor to the bathroom.  
  
“I’ll be fine now,” she said at the bathroom door. “There’s plenty to lean on in here.”  
  
“I’ll wait here to help you when you’re finished,” he said, standing by the window, looking out at the snowy landscape. He plotted out his plans for tomorrow, starting with a call to Bolsover’s office for an appointment before leaving Maidstone, and stopping in to see Inspector Howard upon his arrival in London. He wanted Howard to be prepared to draft a warrant for Bolsover’s office if necessary.  
  
“All finished,” Phryne said from the bathroom door, and Jack went to her to support her back to the bed.  
  
“Stop at the window, Jack,” she said. “I haven’t even had a chance to look at the snow yet.”  
  
Jack led her to the window and opened the curtains all the way so she could see as much as possible. The moon was bright and glinted off the crystalline landscape in breathtaking fashion. Phryne sighed and leaned into him as he stood behind her for support.  
  
“It’s so beautiful,” she said.  
  
“It is,” he agreed, wishing Melbourne would get more snow.  
  
“You know,” she said, a sultry tone to her voice, “if I wasn’t injured, we’d be out there right now.”  
  
“We would?” Jack said, intrigued.  
  
“Mm-hmm,” she nodded. “We’d be wearing long fur coats, walking through the garden, watching our breath turn to fog, feeling alive and exhilarated by the cold. We’d have a snowball fight, of course. I’d come up behind you and stuff a handful of snow down your collar and you’d chase me. Then you’d catch me and tackle me to the snowy ground, and we’d be laughing and you’d kiss me…” she trailed off, the enticing images she was painting fully forming in Jack’s mind.  
  
“In fact,” he said, speaking in a low, sly voice into her ear, “I might strategically tackle you behind a tall hedgerow in the garden and have my way with you right there in the snow.” Her sharp intake of breath matched the sudden appearance of goosebumps on her skin.  
  
“Jack,” she intoned. “What a scandalously arctic idea.” She turned in his arms to look in his eyes.  
  
“Being a policeman doesn’t prevent me from having scandalous ideas,” he said, his voice soft and sensual, his hands warm on her back.  
  
“Damn this head injury,” she said. “And the snow will be gone by this time tomorrow.”  
  
“Maybe when this case is over, we can find a place that still has snow for an actual holiday,” he suggested.  
  
“I can definitely make that happen,” she said, and he leaned in for a kiss.  
++++


	21. Chapter 21

“Stay in bed and rest, like the doctor ordered,” Jack said. “The sooner you get better, the sooner you can come back to London.”

“And if I don’t?” Phryne challenged, a touch of sass returning. 

“Then I’ll have to handcuff you to the bedpost,” he teased.

“Promises, promises,” she smiled slyly. 

“Just obey the doctor, please,” he said, his hands resting lightly on her arms. 

“I will,” she sighed and nodded, sincere and resigned to her fate for another day. 

“If you feel up to it, remember you were going to talk to Mrs. Nettles and the rest of the staff again. Maybe that will turn up something.”

“Thank you for reminding me,” she nodded. “And I’ll keep looking over the evidence. I’ll leave you a message through Chauncey if I come up with anything.”

“I’m going to miss having you with me today,” he admitted.

“I wish I could see Nigel’s face when you barge in with the warrant,” she said with a disappointed sigh. “Just be careful,” she added. 

“I will. I’ll call you later,” he promised, giving her one last hug and kiss. He left her standing in the doorway of her suite and headed downstairs. 

“Keep an eye on her and leave a message for me with Inspector Howard at Whitehall if she takes a bad turn,” he whispered to Prissy and Lady Margaret. “I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

“You know we will, Inspector,” Lady Maragaret assured him. “Now go on and catch that bastard.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Jack nodded, amused by the Lady’s fiery words. 

He’d already contacted Inspector Howard to request a warrant to search the Bolsovers’s offices, based on the two business cards they’d found. He also had promised Phryne he would stop by the House of Garrard to see if the pin they’d found was the one their silversmith had made, and check with the MacCarthy’s to see if there were any messages or leads. While the attack on Phryne had been scary and emotionally draining, it had provided them with a plethora of clues and a narrower focus. The killer was connected to the Bolsover’s firm somehow, and Jack was determined to figure it out. 

Jack maneuvered the Hispano back out onto the main roads and made haste for London. Phryne would jokingly give him grief for driving too fast, but time was of the essence, and he knew Inspector Howard would cover for him if he were stopped for speeding. And though he would never tell Phryne, he enjoyed the powerful pull of the Hispano’s engine and the sense of pure freedom racing down the highway brought. He opened the throttle on the long straightaway as he had the other day and smiled. 

“I’ve got that warrant ready, Robinson,” Chauncey said by way of a greeting when Jack entered his office. “Do you have the evidence?”

“I do,” Jack said, taking the envelope with the two business cards out of his pocket. “You have the camera?” Jack laid the two cards down on the blotter and Chauncey took photos of both sides. He also took a photo of the mill rind pin, then handed the film to a constable with orders to have it developed and returned to his office as soon as possible. 

Jack put the evidence back in their envelopes and he and Chauncey left for the magistrate’s office in Chanucey’s police motor car. 

“How’s Miss Fisher?” Chauncey asked as they drove to the courthouse a few blocks away. 

“Her head still hurts, but she seemed better this morning,” Jack replied. “She’s supposed to rest through tomorrow.”

“I can’t imagine she’s thrilled about that.”

“No, she’d much rather be here in London working the case.”

“And probably solving it quicker than the two of us together,” Chauncey remarked and Jack was inclined to agree.

The Judge was more than happy to grant a warrant to search Nigel and the Baron’s offices, and anywhere else at Hastings, Basset, Partridge & Bolsover, Fiduciary Partners, Ltd. that they deemed would yield clues or information. The Inspectors hustled back out to the car and headed for Threadneedle Street. 

“Detective Inspectors Howard and Robinson to see Lord Bolsover,” Chauncey announced when they walked into the lobby of the firm, flashing their credentials and backed up by two constables whom they’d collected from Whitehall on their way. The thin man with a pinched face sitting behind the reception desk turned pale and swallowed hard. 

“One moment,” he said warily. “I’ll just ring up Lord Bolsover’s secretary.”

“No, need,” Howard said, and pulled the warrant out of his coat pocket. “We’ll show ourselves up. What floor?”

“Th-Third,” the man said, then dove onto his phone to call upstairs. Jack, Chauncey and the constables strode around the desk and climbed the broad staircase two steps at a time. The hunt was on and adrenaline propelled them. 

Rather than going up to the third floor, they stopped at the second and made for Nigel’s office. This had been decided in advance, to throw the financiers off, and because they knew there was actual evidence in Nigel’s filing cabinets. Before they reached the reception desk they could hear men shouting behind the closed office door. The secretary out front was cringing.

“I can’t believe you’d do this to me, Nigel!” came the distressed wail of a tall, well-dressed man who flung open the door, yet dramatically stood there as he continued to shout. “You’re going to regret this!” The man turned to leave, chin held high, then saw the police foursome standing there watching. His eyes grew big and his jaw dropped, but he recovered quickly, brushed his coat and shut the office door. 

“Good day, Miss Whitaker,” the man said with a polite half bow to the secretary. “Sorry to disturb you.”

“It’s quite alright, Mr. Bridges,” she said. Mr. Bridges turned to go, looking the policemen up and down, his gaze lingering over Jack, before making his way quickly to the stairs. Jack recognized him from the excellent description Phryne had given him yesterday - the man in the hidden photo on Nigel’s desk. 

“How may I help you, gentlemen,” Miss Whitaker said, looking back and forth between Chauncey and Jack. 

“Inspectors Howard and Robinson, Miss,” Chauncey said, showing his credentials again. “We are here to see Mr. Nigel Bolsover.” The secretary nodded and went through the door to inform Nigel of their arrival and returned quickly. “Mr. Bolsover will see you now.”

Chauncey led the way, followed by Jack and the two constables. Just as the door was shutting behind them, they heard a man shout from the hallway, “NO! Don’t let them in.” Jack didn’t recognize the voice, it wasn’t the receptionist from the lobby, so others must now be alerted to their presence. 

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” Nigel was saying, his tone dripping with arrogance. 

Chauncey introduced them again, credentials were flashed, then he produced the warrant from his coat pocket. “We’ll be searching this entire office for evidence related to the murder of Reginald Loddington. Your cooperation is not required, but it would be to your benefit.”

“I knew there was something going on when Miss Fisher showed up the other day,” Nigel said. “There’s no way you’ll pin that murder on me,” he declared. 

“Unlock the filing cabinets,” Chauncey stated, waving over Constable Price who was carrying a large box. Nigel protested, claiming client confidentiality, and Chauncey recited the law back to him, chapter and verse. 

Meanwhile, Jack put on his gloves and started looking around. He collected a canvas bag from the other constable who was now guarding the door, and started selecting things to put it in, first and foremost, the photo from Nigel’s desk. 

“That’s personal,” Nigel insisted as he reached for it. Jack just stared at him and dropped the photo frame in the bag. Nigel gulped and ran his finger under his collar. 

“Accessory to murder is a fairly heavy charge, Mr. Bolsover,” Chauncey said. “Obstruction of justice, equally damaging. If you cooperate, maybe we won’t add an indecency charge as well,” he waved his hand at the bag with the photo frame in it. Nigel dug in his pocket and handed Chauncey the keys.

“First cabinet, second drawer from the bottom,” Nigel directed, his attitude noticeably adjusted. 

“Thank you, but we’ll be checking all of them,” Chauncey said, turning toward the cabinets. Jack watched as Nigel squirmed in his seat then got up to pour himself a drink from the cart.

A butler shuffled quickly from a side room to Nigel’s elbow in an attempt to make the drink for his employer. 

“I can pour my own drink, Harbell,” Nigel snapped, and the man nodded and limped away. Jack continued to watch Harbell out of the corner of his eye as he moved around the room looking for further evidence. 

Jack had collected two notepads with all blank pages, but a heavy-handed writer had left an impression on the top blank page that Jack wanted to look at more closely. He also took some stacks of notes from Nigel’s desk and several photographs from the back of a drawer. Since Chauncey was the official Scotland Yard inspector on the case, Jack’s mission was to keep Nigel off balance while Chauncey secured the necessary files. 

Jack continued around the room, finally arriving at the side door that appeared to be the butler’s pantry. Jack caught his eye before the man cast his gaze downward, a flash of recognition flickered at the edge of his brain and his gut tingled with that familiar, case-solving feeling. He needed more evidence to be certain, so Jack set that thought aside and continued with the task at hand. 

“May I?” he asked with a head-tilt toward the pantry. Harbell waved his hand toward the room, allowing Jack inside. It was a modified hallway between offices, with windows on one side and fitted with floor-to-ceiling cabinets on the other side. There were bottles of various spirits on the counter next to a tray of scones and a tin of sandwiches. There were a few plants in the windowsill which Jack noticed were various types of herbs and even a pot of lettuce, presumably for the sandwiches. The cabinets themselves contained mostly drinkware, dishes, flatware and silver service - nothing unusual at all. 

“Where does this door lead?” He asked Harbell, keeping his accent to a minimum. Jack speaking as little as possible was also part of Chauncey’s plan, to avoid suspicion, though he caught Harbell staring at him intently. 

“To Mr. Wharton’s office, sir,” Harbell finally said, swallowing hard and looking down. “He’s one of the Junior partners.” Jack nodded and turned back to Nigel’s office; there was nothing in the warrant about Wharton. 

“That should do it for now, Mr. Bolsover,” Chauncey was saying. “We’ll let you know if any of this evidence can be returned. We’ll need to interview you at Whitehall, so Constable McGregor here will drive you over. In the meantime, Inspector Robinson and I will be visiting with your father first, so we’ll be there shortly.”

Nigel stiffened when Constable McGregor approached, but seemed to relax when Harbell stepped over with his coat and hat. “It’ll be all right, sir,” Harbell said quietly to Nigel, and helped his employer don his outerwear for the trip to the car. Jack noticed Harbell wince as he did so, especially when lifting his arms to hold the coat up, and wondered if it was another old war wound, or something much more recent.

“If you’ll excuse me, Inspectors,” Harbell said. “I need to serve tea to other offices.”

“Oh, go ahead,” Chauncey dismissed him, still glancing through one of the files. Harbell bowed and shuffled back to the pantry hall. 

“C’mon, Robinson,” Chauncey said. “Let’s head upstairs.”

“I’m sorry, Inspectors,” Lord Bolsover’s secretary said when they reached the third floor lobby. “Lord Bolsover is in meetings all day and cannot be disturbed.” The man stood up as he spoke, stretching to look taller than his five-and-a-half foot frame, though his broad shoulders and haughty look gave him the appearance of a scrappy prize fighter. 

“This warrant says otherwise,” Chauncey held up the document, glaring back at the man, undeterred. “This warrant also doesn’t require us to stand on formalities, but we’ll wait while you let Lord Bolsover know we’re here.”

The secretary lifted his chin and sniffed, before turning on his heel and letting himself into Bolsover’s office. A moment later, he returned and held the door open. “Lord Bolsover will see you now,” he said, his contemptuous air dialed back to mere snobbery. 

Jack and the second constable followed Chauncey into the impressive office, filled with heavy, dark wood furniture and the trophies of a man who liked to show off his successes. The heads of large game, silver award cups, and photos with dignitaries took up much of the available space. 

“Inspectors,” boomed the baron, standing behind his desk. “Pleasure to meet you.” He was a tall and rotund man with a bushy white mustache and a watch chain stretched across his ample middle. He didn’t offer to shake hands, and his tone indicated he was far from pleased to be meeting the delegation from Scotland Yard. 

“Good morning, Baron,” Chauncey said. “Inspectors Howard and Robinson. We hate to bother you, but we are investigating a murder and believe there may be a connection to this firm.”

“Yes, nasty business,” Bolsover said, a furrow appearing in his brow. “But I can’t imagine you’ll find anything here,” he said, indicating his office with outstretched hands. 

“We understand your reticence and desire to protect your client’s personal information, but I’m sure you know the law allows us to collect even confidential information if it’s pertinent to the case.”

“So you think my half-wit son did it?” Bolsover asked, stalling.

“As I told your son,” Chauncey said, “this warrant doesn’t require your cooperation, but it would be to your benefit.” Bolsover glared at Chauncey, but Chauncey didn’t budge. 

“Fine,” Bolsover finally relented, taking a set of keys from his desk drawer. 

“Thank you, sir,” Chauncey said, then turned to the filing cabinets. “Bring that box over here, Constable Price.” While they searched the cabinets, Jack carried the canvas bag around the room, looking for other possible evidence. He checked photos, desk drawers and cabinets, enjoying the little huffs of protest Lord Bolsover would make as he touched things. 

There were several photos of groups of men at various celebratory functions, and Jack’s eyes landed on one in particular. He recognized the rear facade of Maidstone and the terraces in the background, and standing with Lord Bolsover were several members of a cricket team. One of the players was a young Nigel Bolsover, standing next to his father. Another was Reginald Loddington, with his arm around another man - a man who Jack clearly recognized from a scuffle over toast in an Army mess tent in France fifteen years ago. Several well-dressed individuals were also in the group, including Baron Eugene Fisher, Phryne’s uncle. The year on the sign in the photo was 1913, just before the war. Jack tucked it into the evidence bag. 

On the wall were several maps of various parts of the English countryside, including Maidstone and the surrounding areas in County Kent. The map was old enough to show the orchard as part of Maidstone, and included many of the features still in place across the property. It was too big for his canvas bag, so Jack took it down and rested it by the door to take with them. 

There was another butler’s pantry adjacent to this office as well, and, seeing no butler around, Jack availed himself of the space. It looked almost exactly like the one next to Nigel’s office downstairs, right down to the plants in the windowsill. Jack looked at them more closely, but didn’t recognize them right away. The fact that both butler pantries had plants in the window was worth noting, however. He took out several wax-paper evidence envelopes from his suit pocket and, using a pair of scissors lying next to the pots, snipped a sprig off each plant. 

“Do you have any more evidence envelopes?” Jack whispered to Chauncey, before telling him his plan to go back to Nigel’s office to collect a bit more evidence and would be back in a few minutes. He hustled down the stairs, trying to figure out why there might be herbs and other plants in the windows, and if it had any connection at all to Loddington’s orchard journal. 

“Miss Whitaker, is it?” Jack asked as he approached the receptionist. 

“Yes, sir,” she said, looking up from her typing. 

“I need to collect just a bit more evidence from Mr. Bolsover’s office, do you mind?” He spoke pleasantly and smiled, remembering his success with Miss Tyndale at the GRO.

“Oh, go right ahead, Inspector,” she nodded and smiled back. Jack thanked her and quickly attended to his plant-snipping task. On the way back out, he stopped by her desk, figuring he’d ask a few questions while he could.

“Thank you, Miss Whitaker,” he said.

“Oh, you’re welcome, Inspector. What did you say your name was?”

“Jack Robinson.”

“Oh, that’s right. It’s no trouble at all.”

“Have you been working for Mr. Bolsover for long?” Jack asked, relaxing his stance. 

“It’ll be six years in April,” she said. 

“You must like it here.”

“It’s all right. Not as exciting as the supply office at Dover during the War, but it pays the bills.”

“You served?” Jack asked, intrigued.

“I did,” she smiled. “It was an exciting time.”

“You miss it,” he said.

“Sometimes, but days like today keep it interesting.”

“I can imagine having the police serve a warrant doesn’t happen every day.”

“No, but there are usually fireworks when Stephen visits.”

“Stephen?”

“Mr. Bridges. The man yelling at Nigel when you arrived.”

“Ah. Is he a client?”

“No, supposedly a friend, but they fight like my parents.”

“I see,” Jack nodded. “Harbell served too, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “But he was in France for most of the war. He told me he’d been injured just a few weeks before Armistice Day.”

“That’s terrible,” Jack said, filing this piece of information away in his mind. 

“There are others here who served,” she added. “Lord Bolsover did his best to hire veterans after the war. He said it was his duty to help his countrymen who had sacrificed so much.”

“That’s quite admirable,” Jack nodded. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your typing, Miss Whitaker. Thank you for your help.”

“Oh, anytime Inspector Robinson. Do let me know if I can be of any further assistance.” The brief flutter of her lashes and emphasis on the word “any” did not go unnoticed. 

“You’ll need to come down to the station to answer some questions and make a statement this afternoon. It’s just routine. I can send a constable over if you need a ride,” he offered.

“That won’t be necessary, Inspector,” she replied, mildly miffed that he didn’t take her bait. “I can hail a cab.” 

“Good day then, Miss Whitaker,” he said, with a slight bow of his head and made for the stairs. 

Chauncey and Constable Price were just reaching the second floor at that moment and they all walked out together. They exited out the front doors, under the curious stares of all the employees and customers in the lobby, then walked around to an alley off the side street where they’d parked the police cars, to allow for more of a surprise when they’d arrived. The constable put the box of evidence in the backseat of Chauncey’s car and was just turning to go around to the driver’s side when a shot rang out. 

Jack crouched and looked around as Chauncey screamed and fell in a heap beside him.  
+++


	22. Chapter 22

“HOWARD!” Jack shouted as he crouched beside Chauncey. 

“Up there!” Constable Price yelled and pointed up toward the roof. “Get down!” 

Jack and Price dove for cover just before another shot cracked the air, echoing down the alley and ricocheting off the cobblestones near their feet. They grabbed Chauncey and pulled him quickly behind the car as the sound of the rifle being cocked again reached their ears. 

Jack checked Chauncey’s pulse - fast and thready - he was alive, but going into shock. The bullet had hit Chauncey in the shoulder from behind and he was losing blood. Jack pulled out his handkerchief and plugged the hole as best he could. He reached inside Chauncey’s jacket for his pistol and then peered out to see the long dark barrel of the rifle coming back over the parapet of the five-story building. Two more shots rang out, blasting the window glass of the car, raining shards on the crouching policemen. 

“He’s got us pinned!” Jack fumed, and dug in Chauncey’s pants for the car keys. “Price! Run around to the lobby and call for help. I’ll cover you. If I can get Inspector Howard out of here, what’s the closest hospital?” 

“St. Bart’s, it’s not far. Ask anybody.” Price said. Two more shots exploded into the car and Chauncey moaned. 

“All right, GO!” Jack said, and Price made for the side of the building where it would be difficult for the shooter to hit him, and ran hard for the side street. Jack put his fedora on the roof of the car then crouched below the doorline to move to a different location to throw off the shooter. He saw the barrel appear and he jumped up and fired, hitting the masonry just below where the shooter was, causing him to scream. This gave Jack enough time to get Chauncey in the back seat of the car.

Angered at being fired upon, the shooter blasted Jack’s hat off the hood with his first shot, and obliterated the windshield with his second. Jack had about ten seconds to get in the car and get moving before the shooter could reload and fire again. He knew his coat was caught in the car door, but that was the least of his worries. He was revving the engine when another shot slammed into the door and yet another glanced off the front fender. He sped down the cobblestoned laneway, punishing the already-shot-up vehicle and causing a side mirror to fall off. 

He honked the horn with gusto as he reached the street and pedestrians on both sides pulled up to avoid being hit. He busted out the broken driver’s window with his elbow and shouted at the crowd.

“I’m Detective Inspector Robinson! An officer has been shot! How do I get to St. Bart’s?”

A fashionably-dressed businessman hopped into the passenger side and pointed. “Turn right here!” Jack flipped on the lights and sirens, peeled out of the laneway and sped off, following the man’s directions. 

“How do you not know where St. Bart’s is?” the man asked.

“New in town,” Jack replied, weaving in and out of other cars as they attempted to get out of his way.

“Straight through the intersection and then bear right at the fork,” the man said then looked in the back seat. “Who’s been shot?”

“Detective Inspector Howard,” Jack replied. 

“Who shot at you?”

“We don’t know.”

“Straight through that next intersection, then right on King Edward Street,” the man said. Cars and people moved out of the way as best as they could on the crowded streets when they saw and heard the police car coming. 

“Annabelle…,” Chauncey moaned.

“Don’t worry Chauncey, I’ll call her,” Jack promised, as he turned onto King Edward and the hospital building came into view.

“Turn left on Little Britain and the Emergency Entrance will be on your left,” said the man. Jack turned left, then a few hundred yards later turned left into the driveway and came to a screeching halt under the portico and turned off the siren. 

Two medics came out of the building pulling a stretcher, and Jack helped them get Chauncey out.

“Who is he?” one of them asked.

“Detective Inspector Chauncey Howard,” Jack said. “His credential is in his coat. And save the bullet!” They whisked Chauncey into the building and Jack leaned heavily against the car to catch his breath.

“You all right?” asked the man who’d helped him get there. 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Jack panted. He wanted to rub his face with his hands but they were covered in Chauncey’s blood, so he settled for wiping his brow with the sleeve of his coat. He looked down and saw more blood on his jacket and pants, and hoped Chauncey hadn’t lost too much. 

“Annabelle,” he breathed, remembering Chauncey’s request. 

“Is that his wife?” the other man asked. 

“Yeah,” Jack nodded, still breathing heavily as the adrenaline continued to course through his veins. “I need to call her,” he added, then looked at the gentleman standing next to him.

“Thank you for your help, Mr…,” Jack began.

“Abercrombie,” the man said, “Jeffrey Abercrombie.” He reached into his jacket and handed Jack a card for a men’s furnishings emporium. 

“Abercrombie,” Jack repeated. “Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. I’d shake your hand but,” he held up his bloodstained palm.

“Think nothing of it. You obviously have more important things to worry about,” Abercrombie said. “But when those things settle down, I’d be happy to help you with a new suit and topcoat since your current set looks a little the worse for wear.” Abercrombie pointed to the tear in the knee of Jack’s trousers and the shredded corner of his coat that had been hanging out of the car door. “I offer a special discount to law enforcement.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jack said, tucking the card away. “Thank you again, Mr. Abercrombie.”

“It was my privilege.”

“Can I give you a lift to wherever you need to go?” Jack asked.

“Actually, you already have,” Abercrombie said. “I was headed this way to visit my ailing mother when your car jumped in front of my path. The hand of fate has helped us both.” He tipped his hat and turned to enter the building. Jack moved the police car to the car park lot and turned off the lights, then headed inside himself. 

+++

“I’m fine, Mother, really,” Phryne said, digging through the valise that Prissy had carried down to the small dining room for her. There was a cheerful fire in the grate, a hot pot of tea on the table, and a mystery to solve. It was almost enough to distract her from the lingering throbbing of her head wound. It wasn’t as nearly as bad as last night, but it was still there, and her whole head was so tender she could barely brush her hair. 

“You could do all this upstairs instead of down here,” Lady Margaret said. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your room?”

“I don’t want to be tucked away from all the action,” Phryne said. “I’ve got everything I need right here.” She smiled and sat down, propping her feet up in a second chair just like she’d done yesterday. 

“Well, then, is there anything we can get for you, dear?”

“You can keep me company,” she said. “Maybe help me solve this case?”

“I don’t know about that, but maybe I can help you sort all these papers.”

“I tell you what,” Phryne said, pulling out Victoria Jane Liddell’s journal that she had gone down to the archives for when she’d been attacked. “Look through here for anything Alexander’s sister may have written about his disinheritance, or any family Alexander may have had after he was banished to Chelsea.”

“Sounds intriguing,” Margaret said, taking the journal reverently and settling in with her own cup of tea. 

Phryne picked up Jack’s notebook from the first day when they’d interviewed the staff. She fingered it gently for a moment, thinking of Jack and missing him, but stopped herself from letting her thoughts wander too far down that path right now. She opened the notebook and turned to the correct pages. Jack’s notes, jotted in his strong, sure, and slightly messy hand, were no easier to read than they ever were, but they were clear enough to show that they hadn’t gotten a lot of information from any of the staff. 

“Mother,” Phryne began.

“Hmm?” Margaret was already deeply engrossed in Victoria’s journal. 

“Tell me again which of the staff stayed on when Father inherited Maidstone.”

“Smythe, of course,” Margaret began. “Except for when he took about 6 months off to train a protege in London about three or four years ago. He and Mrs. Nettles are the only two from before the War that are still with us. Mrs. Beale was here, too, but she caught the influenza and was replaced by Prissy. And also Gordie’s father Ernest. Gordie was maybe six or seven at the time. Ernest was killed in the war, and Gordie was raised by Mrs. Nettles and Mrs. Beale. There always seemed to be a handful of children around then, whose mothers were working and fathers were off fighting.”

“Do you remember a girl named Felicity? Dark hair, big round eyes?”

“I do, actually,” Lady Maragaret said. “I don’t know who she belonged to, but she seemed a very bright child with wisdom beyond her years. She and Gordie were close, and she seemed to stay later in the day after the other children were gone. Mrs. Nettles seemed to know her well. What does she have to do with poor Mr. Loddington?”

“She is his daughter,” Phryne replied. 

“Oh, I never knew. Where was the girl’s mother?”

“I don’t know, but I suspect Mrs. Nettles might. Can you ask her to come in here, please?”

“Of course,” Margaret said and got up to call the cook. Phryne turned to a blank page in Jack’s notebook so she could take notes. 

“How may I help you, Miss?” Mrs. Nettles asked. 

“Please, have a seat,” Phryne said, indicating the chair across from her.

“Was there something wrong with breakfast?”

“No, not at all it was delicious,” Phryne assured her. “I wanted to talk to you about something else. About Felicity Loddington.” 

“Oh,” Mrs. Nettles nodded. “Sweet girl. All grown up now I presume. I heard she got a scholarship to one of those fancy schools in London.”

“She did,” Phryne said. “But I understand that you are her aunt, and that she used to spend a lot of time here when she was young.”

“That’s true. Loddy was my husband’s cousin. We had Felicity here at the house while her father was working in the orchards.”

“Did you know Felicity’s mother?” 

“No, I never did. Loddy said he met her when he was at school in London and that she died giving birth to the girl. He only mentioned it once.”

“Did you know Loddy’s half-brother, Xander Liddell?”

“I’d met him a few times,” Mrs. Nettles nodded. “Before the war. He used to help Loddy with deliveries when he was on leave from the Army.” 

“Anything unusual about Xander that you remember?” Phryne asked.

“You know, he did like to wander through the house. He used to corner Smythe and ask him questions about the history of the house and the furnishings and whatnot. At first I thought it was strange, but then I just figured he was the curious sort. He used to love looking at the Coat of Arms in the Grand Hall.”

“What did you think of the fact that he had the same last name as the former Barons that owned Maidstone?”

“Didn’t think much of it at all. The man who sweeps the chimneys is named Hanover.”

“Anything else about Loddy or Xander that you can recall?”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Xander gave me the recipe for the poison I still use to keep the root cellar clear of rats and mice. Said he came up with it himself and it was an old family recipe using poisonous plants.”

“A recipe?” Phryne said, jotting notes furiously.

“Yes, he said they used it in the Army to keep critters away from the mess tents, but he’d tweaked it a bit. It works a treat. He even wrote it down for me, would you like to see it?”

“I would,” Phryne said, and Mrs. Nettles excused herself to go back to the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later with a couple sheets of wrinkled paper in her hand.

“Here ya go, Miss,” Mrs. Nettles said proudly. “You can look at them as long as you need. I have the recipe memorized now.” 

The first thing Phryne noticed was the similarity of the paper to the pages of the small farming journal, but that the handwriting was clearly not Loddy’s. The pages appeared to have been sliced out of the book at the binding, as well, and Phryne’s heart rate increased. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Nettles,” she said. “I appreciate this very much and hope to return it to you soon.”

“No trouble at all, Miss,” the cook said, made a brief curtsey and went back to the kitchen. As soon as she was gone, Phryne dug the farming journal out of the valise and flipped through the pages. Toward the end of the written entries she found what she was looking for.

“Why didn’t I notice this before?” she said, fingering the two stubs of pages and flattening the well-worn recipe pages into the book. The cut edges were not perfectly straight, and there was an exact match, even after all these years. “But what does it all mean?”

“What is it, Phryne?” Lady Margaret asked. 

“This journal was created by Mr. Loddington, but these two pages were clearly cut out of it, and were written by someone else, most likely Loddington’s half-brother, Xander.” 

“Why would he cut them out for Mrs. Nettles? Wouldn’t Mr. Loddington need them around the orchard, too?

“Not if they had them memorized,” Phryne pondered. “Or…,” she dug through the stacks of notes in the valise and found the ones for the farm journal. She untied the bundle and sifted through them. “Or if there were other copies,” she said with a tone of triumph as she held up several pages with the same handwriting and same recipes on them. She compared the pages, and the recipes seemed the same, but some of the numbers were different. Then an ingredient jumped off the page. 

“Hemlock,” she said.

“I’m not surprised,” Lady Margaret said. “Hemlock can be deadly.”

“I know, and there’s a large patch of it on the eastern edge of property near the creek,” Phryne said, recalling how close it was to Loddy’s house. “Jack pointed it out the other day when we were out riding.”

“You have to ingest it somehow for it to be deadly,” Lady Margaret went on. “And not be treated at all. I remember hearing my grandfather talk about having to keep their cattle away from it.”

“Interesting. But I still don’t know how, or if, it all fits into the mystery,” Phryne mused. She looked back at her notes and decided to switch her train of thought, to see if that would help. 

“Mother, come with me to the Grand Hall. I want to look at the Coat of Arms.” Lady Margaret obliged, and let Phryne lean on her arm as they walked to the other side of the house. There, above the large fireplace, was the Liddell coat of arms, carved with great detail into a giant wooden panel and then colorfully painted. 

“Would you do me a favor, please, Smythe?” Phryne said, seeing him enter the hall out of curiosity.

“Of course, Miss.”

“Would you please bring me the small flashlight?”

“Yes, Miss,” he said and disappeared. 

“What are you looking for, Phryne?” asked Margaret.

“I’m not certain, but I’ll know it when I see it,” she said. Smythe reappeared and handed her the light. Phryne shone it up on the coat of arms and scanned the piece. “There!” she said, aiming the light onto the lower left quadrant. 

“What?” Lady Margaret asked.

“Millrinds,” Phryne said. “A whole field of them, popping up like weeds.”

“I thought they were bales of hay,” Lady Margaret said. 

“I think they were designed to look that way,” Phryne said, and remembered what Marcus from House of Garrard had said. “A king can’t lead his army into battle without a miller grinding wheat into flour so his army can eat,” she quoted. “Of course, why didn’t I see it before!”

“What, Darling?”

“Xander was an Army cook - of course he’d have a mill rind pin. And Loddy’s orchard also provides food. They’re half-brothers, so that means…,”

“What?”

“Xander may still be alive!”  
+++


	23. Chapter 23

“They’re at St. Bart’s, Miss,” the constable said when Phryne’s call was transferred to Inspector Howard’s office.

“St. Bart’s?”

“The hospital, Miss. They were shot about an hour ago.”

“They? Who is ‘they’?” Phryne’s voice rose with a mix of dread and alarm.

“Inspector Howard and that other detective from Australia. They were serving a warrant in Threadneedle street and were shot.”

“WHAT!?” Phryne’s heart dropped like a stone. 

“That’s all I know, Miss,” the constable said. “I can take a message if you’d like?”

“N-no,” she stammered. “No thank you.” She slumped into the chair next to the phone, the handle dropping to the floor with a clatter. Black clouds closed in around her field of vision and she was frozen to the spot. 

“Phryne?” her mother was saying, but Phryne could barely hear her, and didn’t care. “Phryne, darling, what’s the matter?”

“Jack…,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. 

“Phryne?” Lady Margaret gently shook Phryne’s shoulder but Phryne was unresponsive. “HENRY!” she called. “Henry, come quickly!” 

“What’s the matter?” Henry asked upon entering the hall. 

“Oh, Henry, something terrible has happened, I know it!” Maragaret cried, patting Phryne on the arm and cheek. “She’s white as a sheet and her hands are like ice,” she added, her voice shaky. 

“Who was she talking to?” Henry said, putting the phone handle back on the cradle. 

“She called Whitehall to tell Jack something we’d found, she said something about St. Bart’s and then slumped in the chair.”

“Phryne, darling, what did they say?” Henry asked with fatherly concern. 

Shock, fear and rage boiled inside Phryne. Yet when she spoke, her voice sounded dead in her own ears. “Jack’s been shot.” 

“What? Oh, no!” Lady Margaret said, one hand flying to her mouth, the other to her heart. “That can’t be.”

“They were serving the warrant and are at St. Bart’s,” her voice was a leaden monotone as she repeated what the constable had said. Smythe appeared at her elbow with a glass of whiskey. She swigged it down, and it burned her throat, breaking up the shock, but leaving the fear and rage behind, and a growing helplessness that dug its talons into her stomach. 

“Are you sure, Phryne?” Henry asked. “Who did you talk to?” 

“I talked to some damned constable who answered Chauncey’s phone,” she exclaimed, standing up and gesturing at the phone on the hall table, her voice rising as her faculties returned. Adrenaline began pouring into her bloodstream and she started pacing.

“What exactly did he say?” Henry asked. “Calm down and think.”

“How can I calm down when Jack’s been shot in London and I can’t get to him!” she cried.

“Smythe,” Henry said to the butler who brought another glass for her. She swigged the second one down, too, then continuing her pacing. 

“Now, Phryne darling,” Henry soothed. “Let’s go sit in the parlor and you can tell us everything he said and we can figure out what to do next.”

“I have to go to him,” she said, her voice rising with agitation. “Father, give me your keys, I’ll take your motorcar.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Henry said firmly, standing up straight and corralling her with his hands on her shoulders. “You’re in no condition to drive. Not just because of your head wound, but you’re too emotional right now.”

“ARRGH!” Phryne growled, twisting out of his grasp and throwing her whiskey glass down the marble-tiled hall where it shattered into a million pieces in a corner, startling even her.

“Oh!” screamed Lady Margaret, covering her face with her arms, even though the crystal shards didn’t come anywhere near them. 

“Are you quite finished?” Henry barked.

“I-I’m sorry,” Phryne said. “I didn’t mean to become so violent, I -”

“It’s all right,” Henry said calmly, testing the waters with one hand on her shoulder and the other aiming toward the parlor. “Let’s go sit down and figure it out.”

“I don’t know what there is to figure out,” Phryne declared, marching into the parlor, but not sitting down. “Jack’s been shot and is at St. Bart’s Hospital, and I’m stuck here at Maidstone!”

“Did they say when it happened?”

“About an hour ago, the constable said.”

“An hour? Why didn’t they call you as soon as they knew?”

“They probably didn’t know who to call,” Phryne insisted. “That’s why I have to go to him. He doesn’t have anyone else!”

“You can’t go anywhere,” Henry said firmly. 

The two shots of whiskey began to hit her, and Phryne flopped into a chair and put her face in her hands and moaned. “Oh, Jack,” she said, her voice filled with sadness and her head wound began to throb in earnest. Tears sprang to her eyes and she sniffed and wiped them back with her hands. 

“I’ve got a friend in the Commissioner’s office,” Henry said, coming to stand in front of her, holding out his hand. “I can call there and see if they can get some better information.”

“Thank you, Father,” Phryne said, taking his hand, her thoughts beginning to clear despite the tempest of emotions in her heart. “But let’s not worry him just yet. I’ll call Chauncey’s office back and see if they have more details.” The phone in the hall rang just as she was saying it, and Smythe answered. 

“Phone call for you, Miss,” Smythe said, stepping into the parlor. Phryne thanked him and when she stood, she became lightheaded and swayed, gripping her father’s arm for support.

“Phryne, are you all right?” Henry asked. 

“Just help me to the phone,” she said determinedly, and both Henry and Margaret helped her into the hall. 

“Phryne Fisher, here,” she said, with tired impatience; this call would delay her return call to Whitehall.

“Phryne, I have some bad news,” came the deep, rumbly voice that weakened her knees and softened her heart every time.

“Jack!” she cried. “Oh, Jack, are you all right?” Relief rolled off her in satisfying waves and she sunk back into the hall chair as her eyes filled with tears. 

“I’m fine, although my trousers have seen better days,” he admitted, and she allowed herself a sniffling chuckle.

“Mother, Father, Jack’s all right,” she smiled and both her parents exhaled heavily, then Margaret took Henry by the arm and led him back to the parlor to give Phryne privacy. 

“Jack, I called Chauncey’s office and they said you two had been shot,” she related, keeping her voice as steady as possible.

“Only Chauncey was hit, and just in the shoulder. He lost a lot of blood but he’ll be fine. That’s what I was calling to tell you.”

“Oh, poor Chauncey. Does Annabelle know?”

“I called her from the hospital and she’s with him now. They just brought him out of surgery and the doctor handed me the bullet they dug out of his shoulder.”

“Do you need me to come to London? I can drive Father’s Bentley and be there in about two hours,” she said, ignoring the throbbing around her wound.

“No, that’s all right,” Jack said, with gentle firmness. “There’s a new Inspector and ten constables scouring the Bolsover’s office building for clues to the shooter so both of us will just be in the way. Besides, Doctor Schuster will be out there tomorrow to check on you and you don’t want him to drive all the way out from London to find you’re not there.”

“Doctor, Schmoctor,” Phryne scoffed, then sighed. “I know, you’re right.” The morning’s exertion and the shock over the false news about Jack had depleted her emotional and physical resources, and she knew she really should lie down.

“Now that I know Chauncey will be alright, I’m going to go by the Savoy and change, then stop by House of Garrard with the pin,” Jack continued. “Then I hope to be back to Maidstone tonight.”

“I hope so, too,” she said. 

“What did you call Whitehall for?” Jack asked.

“Oh!” Phryne brightened, remembering the clues she’d discovered, her pain taking a backseat to the case. “Jack, I think Xander may still be alive!”

“I believe you’re right,” Jack replied.

“It all goes back to the mill rind,” she said, the information spilled out of her as her world tilted back to its proper murder-solving axis. “I spoke to Mrs. Nettles this morning and she told me that not only did she watch Felicity at Maidstone when she was a child, but that Xander had given her recipes for herbal pesticides that included hemlock. All of the drawings of Loddy’s that we saw at the Botanical Gardens were poisonous plants, one of which hemlock. Xander told her it was an old family recipe, AND that he used to use it in the Army to keep pests away from the mess tents and field kitchens. She gave me copies of the recipe that he’d given her, and they had been sliced out of the farm journal, but they were not in Loddy’s handwriting. I also found extra copies of the recipes in the stacks of notes in the valise, also in the same handwriting.”

“What does rat poison have to do with who killed Loddington, even if it was Xander?”

“I’m getting there,” Phryne said. “The mill rind means industry and provision. Mrs. Nettles told me that Xander used to get Smythe to show him around the house and talk about the history, and he was particularly interested in the Liddell Coat of Arms in the Grand Hall. One of the quadrants has a pattern of mill rinds in the background. Xander could certainly have known the story of how his grandfather had been banished and disinherited, making him quite interested in all things Maidstone.”

“Go on,” Jack said, and Phryne could hear a pencil scratching furiously on the other end of the line. 

“Marcus at House of Garrard said that the mill rind can literally mean one who prepares provisions for the king to feed the army. Xander was an Army cook, and Loddy was a farmer, so that completely fits with both of them using the mill rind symbol.”

“And Lisa said her grandfather Loddington purchased the land for the orchard from the Liddells, giving him a connection to Maidstone, if only tangentially,” Jack added.

“Right,” Phryne agreed. 

“So what makes you think Xander is still alive?”

“He has motive to challenge my family for Maidstone, if he knows about his grandfather’s banishment,” she said. “Maybe Loddy wanted to get a share of the inheritance and that’s why Xander killed him.”

“So you believe Xander is still alive and is, in fact, our killer,” Jack clarified.

“I do.”

“Well, that does fit with the shooter this morning,” Jack added. “He was using a bolt-action, military-style rifle and shooting with precision from the top of a five-story building.”

“Oh, Jack,” Phryne breathed.

“It’s a wonder we all weren’t killed,” he said.

“Don’t even say that,” she replied, unable to hide the catch in her throat.

“I’m sorry,” Jack offered, his voice softening. “I should have called you right away.”

“It’s all right,” she replied, swallowing hard and refocusing. “You’re fine and we have a case to solve. So did they catch the man who was shooting at you?”

“No sign of him anywhere, except a few shell casings on the roof,” Jack said. “No one can figure out how he got down from the roof and out of the building without being seen. It’s like he disappeared.”

“There must be someone on the inside,” Phryne said. “It has to be Xander, but we have to figure out who he is.”

“I think I know who it is,” Jack said, remembering his brief interaction with Harbell that morning. “I’ll see if I can get someone to requisition more military records. It may be he switched identities with another soldier who died. It’s not the first time we’ve seen that happen.”

“That’s true.” She sighed and tapped her fingers to the bandage on her wound, to make sure it wasn’t bleeding through.

“How’s your head?” Jack asked, reading her mind.

“It feels like I should probably go lie down for a while. It’s been an exciting morning,” she admitted. 

“Good idea. I’m really sorry I didn’t call you sooner.”

“Don’t let it happen again,” she teased while her throat constricted with emotion.

“I won’t. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” There was a silence on the line between them for a moment, and Phryne closed her eyes and imagined Jack holding her. Her yearning for him was a comforting ache that settled on her heart like a warm but heavy blanket. 

“I need to go,” Jack said, his voice husky with reluctance. “The Inspector taking over for Chauncey is here and wants to talk.”

“Go on, then,” she bantered while stifling a sniff. “Get back to work.” They said goodbye, and she hung up. Her parents helped her onto the elevator and to her room, Prissy changed her bandage, and she took a dose of the morphine before sinking into the bed for a much-needed nap.

+++

“Inspector!” greeted Mr. MacCarthy when Jack let himself in to Phryne’s suite at the Savoy. “We were wondering when one or both of you would show up again.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. MacCarthy,” Jack said, handing the butler his hat and coat. “We should have called, but a lot has been going on since yesterday morning.”

“Including that nasty tear in your trousers,” MacCarthy noticed. 

“Yes, I’ve come by to change and then I have to run over to House of Garrard before they close. Are there any messages?”

“Yes, a couple,” MacCarthy said, going over to the phone and picking up several pieces of paper. “Madame Vionnet called to say Miss Fisher’s gown is ready,” MacCarthy read off each message and handed them to Jack. “A Mr. Standish called about the Hispano-Suiza, something about some documents, and a Lisa Belmont called about dinner tonight.”

Jack held up the message from Lisa Belmont. “This one could prove fruitful,” he said, walking over to the phone and dialing the number. 

“British Museum of Art, how may I help you?” said the woman answering the phone. 

“I’m calling for Lisa Belmont, one of your student researchers. Is she available?”

“Who may I say is calling?”

“Tell her it’s Mr. Robinson.” 

“One moment.” The woman put the call on hold and Jack waited for what seemed longer than usual, then he remembered she worked in a lab and would have had to be summoned to another part of the building to take the call. 

“Lisa Belmont speaking”, said the young woman when she came to the phone.

“Miss Belmont, it’s Jack Robinson, returning your call.”

“Thank you, I’ve been thinking about our conversation the other day. I have those documents you wanted to see.”

“That’s good.”

“Is the offer to share them still available?”

Jack sensed she was being cryptic due to other people in the office possibly listening in, so he took the lead in the conversation. “We had talked about having dinner, but Miss Fisher is not in London today or tomorrow. I don’t want to put you off, unless you can find a chaperone to accompany us to dinner.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she replied, and Jack heard a hint of Phryne’s independent streak in her voice and he smiled. He was still keen to respect her reputation, however. 

“I have some connections at Scotland Yard if Whitehall would be a more neutral location for you,” he offered. 

“No, I prefer not to do that.” Jack was becoming frustrated and running out of options. It wouldn’t be proper to have dinner alone with her, even if it was 1930 and she was an independent young woman. 

“Invite her here,” MacCarthy whispered. “We can order room service and Mrs. M and I can chaperone.” That sounded like a plan to Jack. 

“Miss Belmont,” he began. “Why don’t you come to Miss Fisher’s suite at the Savoy, her valet and housekeeper will chaperone. I can even have the housekeeper, Mrs. MacCarthy, meet you in the lobby and walk you up.” There was silence on the other end of the line as Lisa contemplated the arrangement. 

“That sounds fine. What time?” 

“Seven?”

“I’ll see you then. Thank you, Mr. Robinson.” She hung up without further elaboration and Jack looked at the phone handle and blinked. 

“Dinner at seven, Mr. MacCarthy?” he said to the valet.

“Don’t worry about a thing, we’ll take care of it. Now, go change and bring me those trousers so I can get to work on them.”

“Righto,” Jack said.

“Inspector,” MacCarthy asked. “Where is Miss Fisher?”

“She’s recovering from a head injury she received yesterday,” Jack said. “She should be fine in a day or so, but the doctor told her to stay in bed for two days.”

“That’s terrible,” MacCarthy said. “How did it happen?”

“I’ll tell you about it when I return. I need to get to House of Garrard before they close.” Jack changed swiftly, grabbed a spare fedora he'd brought just in case, and handed his rumpled and damaged suit to Mr. MacCarthy as he dashed out the door.  
+++


	24. Chapter 24

Jack hailed a cab to House of Garrard, since he didn’t want to be delayed in trying to find his way in an unfamiliar city. He arrived with fifteen minutes to spare before their four-thirty closing time. 

“Ah, Inspector Robinson,” Marcus said, greeting Jack with a handshake. “How may I help you today?”

“Is your silversmith, Mr. Paisley, still here?” Jack asked.

“He is.”

“I’d like him to look at a piece to see if he crafted it.”

“Certainly, come back to my office.” Marcus led Jack to the back then left to collect the silversmith. A few moments later, Marcus returned with a shorter man in work clothes and a leather apron, and a visor with a magnifying glass attached. 

“Inspector, this is Robert Paisley, our head silversmith. Robert, this is Detective Inspector Robinson. He works with Miss Fisher who was here the other day. He has something for you to look at.”

“Yes, sir,” Paisley nodded, and Jack took the envelope out of his coat pocket and let the pin fall out into his other hand. 

“Did you make this pin, Mr. Paisley?” Jack asked, as the smith’s eyes widened.

“Where did you get this?” Paisley asked in a hushed version of his Irish brogue and picked the pin out of Jack’s hand to look at it through his magnifier. 

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Jack replied. “Did you make it?”

“I did, sir,” Paisley said. “Here’s my maker’s mark.” He pointed to a small indention on the back near the pin post, and Marcus handed Jack a magnifying glass. Jack could make out an “RP” in a circle with the “R” backwards and sharing the vertical portion with the “P”.

“Very good,” Jack said. “Marcus, this is now evidence in a the murder of Reginald Loddinton, and an attack on Miss Fisher.” Jack said as both mens eyes widened in surprise.

“Miss Fisher was attacked?” Marcus asked with alarm.

“Hit over the head with a cricket bat yesterday,” Jack allowed. “She’ll be fine in a couple days. In the meantime, I’ll need the name and any contact information you may have on this customer.”

“Inspector, I have already explained to you and Miss Fisher that I cannot just tell you the names of our clients,” Marcus stated, his tone indicating something unspoken.

“Will a warrant change your mind?” Jack asked, and Marcus smiled.

“We are always happy to cooperate with law enforcement as much as we can,” the jeweler nodded. “I don’t want our clients to think we will reveal their names without good reason.”

“Good. It may take a day or two, but someone will be back with a warrant for that information. Please have it ready.”

“I understand,” Marcus nodded. “May I walk you out?” Marcus led Jack back out to the sales floor and slowed as they passed the case of wedding rings. 

“Have you thought any more about a ring for Miss Fisher,” Marcus whispered and tilted his head toward the case. “I saw you looking at them that day,” he added.

“No, not since the last time I was here,” Jack said curtly, taken by surprise.

“Let me know what you decide,” Marcus said with a palms-up gesture. “I would be honored to earn your business.”

Jack glanced from Marcus to the display case and back, struggling to switch gears at that moment. “I’ll let you know,” he said, fitted his hat on his head and left. He would think about that purchase when the killer was caught and the case was solved. 

Jack caught another cab back to Whitehall, hoping to glean more information about the shooting from the newly assigned detective, and suggest he look at someone on the inside at Hastings, Basset, Partridge & Bolsover, Fiduciary Partners, Ltd. He also needed to request more military records on Xander Liddell, to figure out how he could have escaped from France alive.

“Robinson!” barked Detective Inspector Bill Drayton from Chauncey’s office as Jack approached. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

“Good afternoon to you, too, Drayton,” Jack said, taken aback by the other detective’s harsh tone and harsher implication, which was quite different from his calm, cool demeanor at the hospital. 

“Don’t get cheeky with me, Aussie,” Drayton said, holding up one of the Loddington case file folders and glaring daggers at Jack. “I can put you on the next ship headed south if I don’t get some answers right now.”

Jack stood his ground, returning Drayton’s glare with a hard stare of his own, and waited until Drayton sighed and relaxed. 

“Oh, sit down,” Drayton grumped and waved at the visitor’s chairs, then let himself fall heavily into Chauncey’s chair. “Help me make sense of all this, will you? How did this escalate from a murdered farmer in County Kent to police officers being shot at in London’s financial district?”

Jack leaned back and crossed his legs and steepled his fingers, enjoying having the upper hand for once. “Don’t forget a bludgeoned Miss Fisher as well,” he added firmly. 

“Of course,” Drayton said apologetically. “Start from the beginning, won’t you?” Jack nodded and went over the case with Drayton, spending the better part of an hour walking him through the web of information he and Phryne had collected, right up through his phone call with her earlier in the day and his visit to the House of Garrard just now.

So you believe this Xander Liddell is still alive and is the perpetrator of all three crimes, and may possibly be on the inside at Hasty, Basset, Bolsover, whatever?”

“That’s our theory,” Jack nodded. “Are you able to request those additional military records? We’ll need to know all the canteen units at Meuse-Argonne in October of 1918, especially those near Romange, including casualties, injured as well as killed.” 

“Let me call over to the War Records Department right now,” Drayton said, picking up the phone. 

“We’ll also need a list of employees from Hastings, Basset, Partridge & Bolsover for cross-reference,” Jack continued. 

“Got that here,” Drayton said, handing Jack a folder. Jack glanced over the list of about thirty people and tried to figure out who would have the strongest motive for murder and attempted murder. 

“Put a rush on it if you can,” Drayton urged the person he was talking to before hanging up. “Those records may be here tomorrow, but more likely on Friday,” he said to Jack. 

“Any word on Inspector Howard since I saw you at the hospital?” Jack asked.

“No, but I’ll call you if anything changes.”

“I have a dinner meeting at seven, then heading back out to Maidstone late. Leave a message for me out there,” Jack said, getting up to leave.

“Will do, and I’ll have that warrant for Garrard taken care of as well.”

“Thanks,” Jack nodded and said goodbye to Drayton, then headed back to the Savoy. He would call Phryne again and possibly catch a nap before dinner with Miss Belmont. 

+++

“Inspector?” Mrs. MacCarthy said in a soft, sing-songy voice. “Time to wake up.” Jack had dozed off on the couch and she shook his shoulder gently to rouse him, and he started at the intrusion on his sleep.

“Ah, thank you, Mrs. MacCarthy,” Jack said, sitting up and rubbing his face. “What time is it?”

“About quarter past six,” she said. “Go freshen up, and I’ll make you a cuppa to bring you ‘round,” she said, shooing him off to the bedroom. 

Mrs. MacCarthy went down to the lobby at six-fortyfive to wait for Miss Belmont and returned with her charge a few minutes after seven. The room service cart arrived promptly after and the MacCarthy’s laid out the meal on the table. Jack explained to Lisa that he was a detective, since he and Phryne had left that detail out when they’d first met her, but wanted her to know that he was only working privately with Miss Fisher so she need not fear him. Lisa took it all in stride, especially with Mrs. McCarthy there as a calming influence.

“We weren’t expecting to hear from you so soon, Miss Belmont,” Jack said, after a bit of small talk was exchanged and they were all a few sips into their wine. “You indicated the other day that you had a lot of work to do before you’d have time to meet with us.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it after you left,” Lisa said. “As soon as I got home I took out everything my father sent me. It turns out he’d not only written me letters, but gave me his mother’s diaries. I stayed up late that night reading them.”

“Must have been interesting to keep you up so late,” Jack said, encouraging her to go on.

“They read like a dramatic novel. She could have had a career as a writer,” Lisa commented. “I brought everything with me so you could see for yourself.”

“Is that why you wanted to meet sooner, because of something dramatic in the diaries?” Jack asked, sensing her hesitation to speak about it, but gently moving her toward revealing the secret. 

“It turns out that my father wasn’t a half-brother after all,” Lisa said. “Lawrence James Liddell was his father, too.”

“Well,” Jack said, wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin to hide the twinge of excitement that bubbled under the surface. Xander’s motive for murder just increased exponentially, if he really was still alive. “That is dramatic news. Were you surprised?”

“Somewhat,” Lisa said. “It certainly explained my father’s obsession with the inheritance he thought he was due.”

“Why don’t you tell me the full story,” Jack said. 

“Lawrence James Liddell, my grandfather, was born in Chelsea in London,” Lisa began. “He was a merchant in the city, but his wife, Sarah Catherine Belmont, had trouble with the smoky city air, so they moved out to County Kent when my Uncle Xander was small. They lived in Linton, near Maidstone house, and my father worked in London during the week and came out to the country on the weekends. My grandmother met John Loddington at the market one day, and they would meet up regularly at the market and other places during the week to talk. My grandmother fell in love with him. 

“John Loddington was the gardener at Maidstone, and one of the other servants there caught John and Sarah kissing behind a hedgerow near the church and ratted her out to Lawrence. Lawrence had a flair for the dramatic and challenged John to a duel which took place in the churchyard next to Maidstone. John won, and Lawrence was killed, but Sarah was already pregnant with my father, Reginald. Xander was nine years old then, and Sarah didn’t think she could have any more children, but she wanted more so she indulged her husband whenever he wanted her. In her diary she claimed she’d never had relations with John while she was still married to Lawrence.

“Sarah married John within a month of Lawrence’s death, and my father was born only five months later. Baron Fisher fired John as his gardener, but gave him fifty acres of Maidstone land that already had orchards on it, deeded it over free and clear, but with the proviso that Maidstone would get a cut of the profits of the orchard. My father had told me his father had bought the land from the Liddells, but maybe that’s what his father had told him, to keep my father from asking too many questions.”

“I can see why they’d want to hide the duel and that the gardener had bested a titled gentleman,” Jack agreed. 

“Since Sarah and John were married when my father was born,” Lisa continued, “all the documentation shows John as the father, which is why all the records make it look like he and Xander are only half-brothers.” 

“Did your father know that he was descended from a Liddell, not John Loddington?”

“I don’t believe he did until after my grandmother died and he read her journals. He sent me all the information, but I was more interested in science than history until you and Miss Fisher turned up,” she said. 

“Did you know about your father’s tattoo of a mill rind? An element from the Liddell family coat of arms?”

“I did, it was hard to miss it. He told me it meant industry and provision for others, which he said suited his choice to stick with the orchard after my grandfather died.” 

“Is that proviso about the orchard profits still in effect?” Jack asked. 

“I believe so. It was the reason my father couldn’t sell the orchard when my grandfather died. I don’t know what will happen now that my father is gone. I’ve been putting off the lawyer who’s been calling me about it, but I’m certainly not going to take it over. Miss Fisher and her family will have to figure out what to do about it I suppose.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to work something out with you,” Jack assured her.

“I hope so,” Lisa sighed. “If there’s any legacy from my father that I want to carry, it’s his research and his love of learning and science, not farming.”

“I’m sure he would be very proud of you for that,” Jack said. Lisa nodded and absentmindedly pushed the last bits of her dinner around her plate. 

“Miss Belmont,” Jack began in a softened tone. “Who is making the arrangements for your father? Is someone helping you? Is there any other family?”

“I’ll have to do it myself,” she said, staring across the room at the large windows. “The police won’t let me have his body until they’re finished with it in the morgue and I have no idea how long that will be.  
Frankly, I don’t even know how I can afford it. No, there’s no other family to help, and I barely make enough from my internship to buy anything for myself except tea and stockings. Everything I have is part of my scholarship - the tuition, the room and board, the furniture in my room, the supplies I use for my research, everything.” She took a deep breath before continuing. 

“My father was the love of my life when I was a girl,” she said, her eyes welling with tears. “He was kind and intelligent and had the most wonderful, gentle humor. I was very worried about him in the last few years with his obsession about Maidstone and the family heritage. He was a different person and I had to distance myself from him because I couldn’t afford to get caught up in the intrigue and possibly lose my scholarship.” Tears spilled down her cheeks in a mix of sadness and regret. “I wish I had spent Christmas with him,” she said, her voice breaking. “And now I’ll never get to again.” 

Mrs. MacCarthy moved quickly to Lisa’s side as the girl’s shoulders slumped and the sobs broke through. “Come now, child,” Mrs. MacCarthy said soothingly. “Come sit with me.” She led Lisa over to the sofa and held her while she cried. Mr. MacCarthy quickly poured a cup of tea and brought it over, setting it down on a nearby table for when Lisa was ready for it. 

Jack ambled over to sit in a side chair and wait for Lisa to collect herself. If his hunch was right, this was the first time she’d allowed herself the space to cry over her father. He would give her all the time she needed. 

After a little while, Lisa’s sobs subsided, and she turned to Jack. “I’m sorry I broke down like that,” she said. “I’ve not really dealt with the loss of my father yet.” She twisted her handkerchief in her fingers and looked away, guilt over avoiding her emotions evident in her eyes and the sad pursing of her lips. 

“It’s all right, Miss Belmont,” Jack offered quietly. “We all deal with these things in our own ways.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking at him. “I loved my father, and I’m going to miss him.” Mrs. MacCarthy squeezed the girl’s shoulders and patted her arm. 

“Miss Belmont,” Jack began carefully. “Who else knew about your mother’s diaries?” 

“Only my father, as far as I know,” Lisa said, standing up and going to the hall tree for her shoulder bag. She sat back down on the sofa and took out a bundle of letters and a bundle of small books, and handed both to Jack. 

“In the letter he included with the books,” Lisa continued. “He said she had entrusted them to him before she died and he’d hidden them in the cottage under a floorboard near the hearth. He said to keep them safe because they contained information that would upset others. I didn’t know what that meant until I started reading them and found out about my father being the son of Lawrence, not John. I don’t know who would be upset about that except Uncle Xander, but he’s dead.”

Jack leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Miss Belmont, we have reason to believe that your Uncle Xander is very much alive and living under an assumed name. We’re still trying to sort that out, but the information in the diaries would certainly be valuable to him, and possibly dangerous for you.”

Lisa’s eyes widened and her jaw fell open. “You think Uncle Xander is still alive and that he killed my father?”

“That’s the most logical explanation for now. We’re still waiting on some military records to help us discover the truth.”

“In the letter, Father said that sending me the diaries was the safest place he could think of, but I’m not sure I want to be anywhere near them now.”

“We’ll keep them for you,” Jack said. “They will be valuable evidence in the case.” 

“Thank you,” Lisa nodded, but Jack sensed an unasked question.

“Miss Belmont,” he asked. “Now that you know this information, are you concerned about your own safety?”

“I’m beginning to think I should be,” she said. 

“Have you seen anyone lurking around or had any unusual phone calls or anything like that?” Jack asked.

“No, I haven’t, but then I can be very focused on my work and be so wrapped up in my thoughts that I am probably not as aware of my surroundings as I should be.”

“Let me make a phone call,” Jack said, standing up and walking across the room to the phone. He rang up Phryne at Maidstone and had a quiet conversation. When he returned to his seat, he gave Lisa a smile. 

“Miss Belmont, I’ve just spoken with Miss Fisher, and she has enthusiastically offered to cover the cost of a room here at the Savoy for you for your safety until this case is solved. We can bring your research over and you can order room service on Miss Fisher’s account so that you won’t have any further delays. And before you object,” Jack said as Lisa’s mouth opened to do just that. “When I explained that your father is actually a Liddell, she insisted. You see, your grandfather’s Aunt Victoria married George William Fisher who is Miss Fisher’s Great Uncle, and Miss Fisher always takes care of her family.”

Lisa pondered the information for a few moments, then looked directly at Jack. “I suppose I have no choice,” she smiled shyly. 

“Good,” Jack said. “I’ll call the front desk and reserve the room. Then Mr. MacCarthy and I will escort you back to your quarters to collect your things, clothes for a few days and whatever else you need, and Mrs. MacCarthy will help you get settled tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll go over to your laboratory to pick up whatever you need to keep up your research.”

“Thank you,” Lisa said, her face glowing with relief. “And thank Miss Fisher for me, as well.” Jack promised he would, but now that he was helping Miss Belmont, he knew he wouldn’t be going back to Maidstone tonight.  
+++


	25. Chapter 25

“They had a room a few doors down from here which will make it easier to protect her,” Jack was telling Phryne on their late night phone call. He had pulled a chair over to the phone and was relaxing with a glass of whiskey while they spoke, filling her in on his dinner with Miss Belmont and the new information she’d added to the case. “I also called over to Whitehall to have them send a plain clothes constable over to sit outside her room at night.”

“That won’t draw any attention at all,” Phryne commented and Jack could hear her eyes rolling through the line. 

“There’s a small alcove at the end of the hall where he can see her door but not be seen by anyone in the hall.”

“And what if he is seen and questioned?”

“Then he’s guarding an American banker who bilked people out of their fortunes in the stock market crash and was captured in Paris trying to escape arrest.”

“Good one,” Phryne acknowledged. “No one will want to get anywhere near someone like that.”

“They’re keeping Nigel overnight on the murder charge, based on the business cards and because he has no alibi other than he was home alone that night.”

“Well, they may have reason to think he killed Loddy, but he certainly didn’t attack me,” Phryne said. 

“Hopefully, this will all be over as soon as we get those military records back so we can figure out who Xander is impersonating,” Jack said.

“Do you have any theories?” Phryne asked. 

“One or two,” Jack replied, taking a sip of his drink. “The receptionist in the lobby was very keen on alerting Lord Bolsover to our presence this morning, and during the time of the shooting, he was not at his desk. They were questioning some of the other employees in the lobby after the shooting when he came strolling back in, and his hair was a bit out of place and his suit was rumpled.”

“Interesting,” Phryne said, but her tone indicated she didn’t believe him. “Who else?”

“Nigel’s valet, Charles Harbell.”

“Oh, Jack,” Phryne laughed before Jack could explain his reasons. “That man couldn’t hurt a fly! He can barely walk and his hands shake so much I was afraid he’d drop the tea tray.”

“Remember we talked about things not always being what they seem, and he winced when he had to lift his arms to help Nigel on with his coat today. Possibly due to a recent sword wound.” 

“Fine, we’ll keep him on the list, then,” she conceded.

“Who do you think it is?” Jack countered.

“I was thinking it might be Nigel’s paramour, the one in the photo,” Phryne said. “They could be working together, with Nigel being the brains and the other man being the brawn.”

“Stephen Bridges,” Jack told her. “I met him today, actually.”

“You did?” Phryne was intrigued. 

“He’d been having a loud argument in Nigel’s office and exited in rather dramatic fashion just as we were arriving. Nigel’s secretary said the two of them fight like her parents.”

“That leaves little doubt as to the nature of their relationship,” Phryne commented. 

“He was also rather tall,” Jack said. “Maybe an inch or two taller than I, and certainly as tall as Nigel. Didn’t you say your attacker was too short to be Nigel?”

“Damn,” Phryne said, her theory deflated.

“That doesn’t rule him out completely. There may be more than one attacker, however unlikely that may be. Unless…,” Jack said, trailing off.

“Unless what?” Phryne asked.

“Nigel’s secretary, a Miss Whitaker, said she served in a supply office at Dover during the war, but if that was a cover for something else…,” Jack mused. 

“Well, I don’t believe the person who attacked me was a woman, but I couldn’t completely rule it out,” Phryne said. “All I could see were his eyes and even those not very clearly in the dark. And then there’s the mill rind pin, and that was clearly on a man, according to the boys at the Fox Den. Could Miss Whitaker have shot a rifle at you today?”

“Possibly,” Jack allowed. “Women are often equally good marksmen as men.”

“Of course we are,” Phryne said, and Jack smiled as he pictured the confident lift of her chin as she said it. 

“And if you’re looking at the secretaries, then Lord Bolsover’s man might also be considered,” Jack added. “He certainly didn’t want us to enter the Baron’s office. He’s not as tall as Nigel or Stephen, and looks like he could swing a shovel or a cricket bat with ease.”

“Have you asked each one their whereabouts when the shooting was taking place?” Phryne asked. 

“Inspector Drayton was sent to cover the shooting and take over the Maidstone case while Chauncey is recuperating. He had everyone at the firm interviewed, but I haven’t had time to go over the transcripts in detail,” Jack sighed. “It’s been a long day.”

“It has,” Phryne said and there was a comfortable pause between them. “Jack,” she continued, her voice quiet. “When I heard you’d been shot, I,” she stopped herself and cleared her throat. Jack’s heart twisted in a knot, knowing exactly how she had felt. “Well, as someone once said, I found it unbearable,” Phryne finished her sentence with a tremor in her voice, and Jack wanted nothing more than to hold her in that moment. 

“Do you need me to come back out there tonight?” he asked, fully willing to do so, regardless of the late hour. 

“No, I’ll be fine,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry I didn’t completely understand what you were going through in the wake of Gertie’s motorcar crash. But I do now.” 

“It’s all right, my love,” Jack said. “If I could have prevented you from ever feeling the way I did, I would have.”

“I love you, Jack,” she said.

“I love you, too.”  
+++

“Dearest Dot,” Phryne wrote the next morning after breakfast, feeling the need to connect with her friend.

“I must thank you again, and profusely, for sharing some of my letters with Jack, which helped him decide to come to London. He surprised me at the Policeman’s Ball and swept me off my feet and we’ve been inseparable ever since. I have never been happier.

“Those six months apart from him helped me to see what I was missing. I know it may seem impossible for a woman like me to be with one man forever, or even for a long time, but I’ve found it’s what I’ve always wanted. It just took the right man for me to see it.

“To be clear, he didn’t ask me to marry him, but he did ask me to be his alone for life, and I said Yes! Can you believe it? Me - Phryne Fisher - committed for life! But, Oh! Jack Robinson is worth it!

“We are deep into another murder mystery, and having Jack here is just like it used to be! Except now he doesn’t leave after our nightcaps. Did I mention how happy I am?

“I don’t know what the future holds, or when I’ll return to Melbourne, but Jack and I will figure it out – together! I hope you and Hugh are having a wonderful week, and you may stay at Wardlow as long as you need to. Please say hello to everyone for me, and I’ll write again soon!

“All my love, Phryne.” She tucked the letter in an envelope, wrote out the address and added a stamp, then tucked it into her purse. She would post it from London where it would be on its way a few days quicker than if she’d sent it from Maidstone. 

And speaking of London, she needed to pack. She’d conspired with Gordie earlier, under the pretense of discussing the care of her horse Versailles, to whisk her away to London after Doctor Schuster’s visit. Her head was feeling better and she needed to get back to Jack. If anything changed, she could see Doctor Schuster in his London office. 

She collected all the evidence, including Loddy’s valise, and placed it in a medium-sized leather case, then added a few clothes and shoes for good measure, even though she had plenty of clothing in London. She tucked the bandages, poultice and morphine into a drawstring bag and nestled it into the bottom of her purse. Gordie arrived to take her case, and if anyone asked, she had packed her riding boots and other gear for him to check over while she was convalescing. Phryne was certain he wouldn’t be seen, however; Prissy and Mrs. Nettles would be in the kitchen and Smythe would be at the market, and Gordie knew how to exit the mansion without being seen from the kitchen. 

Doctor Schuster arrived around eleven am, much later than Phryne had expected, having stopped off to see several other patients first. He spent close to an hour examining her and discussing her injury and care with her, her parents and Prissy. Then Lady Margaret invited him to stay for lunch, and he cheerfully accepted, as if arriving before noon and extending his examination almost to the stroke of twelve wasn’t designed to elicit a luncheon invitation at such a grand estate. Phryne rolled her eyes. 

Citing her weariness, she asked to have lunch brought up to her room and everyone left her alone. She waited for Prissy to return with a tray, ate quickly, changed into more businesslike attire, then opened her window a crack to wave a red scarf for Gordie. She saw him wave back from near the garage, and knew he was ready. 

Carrying her black pumps, she snuck down the back stairs in soft-soled slippers. Lunch was being served in the conservatory, so Phryne padded through the Grand Hall toward the front door. She slipped out quietly and dashed around the side of the house toward the garage. Gordie had the old Wolesley already running so she hopped right in.

“Fancy a ride, Miss?” Gordie asked with a wink.

“I reckon I do,” she replied, and Gordie turned the car toward the driveway. “Are you sure this vehicle will even make it to London?” she asked as the engine sputtered and lurched.

“Don’t worry, Miss. She just takes a few minutes to warm up. I drive her all over town on errands, and even to London about once a month. She’s not as fast as your Hispano, but we’ll get there in one piece.”

“I suppose arriving in one piece is most preferable, considering the events of this week so far,” she mused. Gordie turned the motorcar on to the main road and soon they were putting Maidstone behind them. 

+++

Jack spent the better part of the morning helping Lisa Belmont collect her research materials from the museum laboratory, but not without some strenuous negotiation with the museum staff as well as her professor. Jack had to explain that Lisa’s life was in danger and she would be guarded ‘round the clock in a secure location, but since her professor wouldn’t agree to an extension for her work, she would need to work while in hiding. Jack promised that nothing would be lost or damaged, and they made Lisa sign an agreement that she would compensate the museum for any losses which occurred while the material was in her private care. 

Finally, Lisa was allowed to go collect her things, and was able to fit it all into three boxes, one each for her, Jack, and the attending constable to carry. They helped her get set up in her room at the Savoy, and Jack took some time to skim through Loddy’s letters and Mrs. Loddington’s diaries one more time to commit the story to memory. 

“Hello, dear,” Mrs. MacCarthy said quietly, having been let in by the constable in the hall. “I hope you had a good night’s rest.” She was carrying a basket of baked goods and busied herself making a pot of tea in the small kitchen area. 

“I did, thank you, Mrs. MacCarthy. Mmm… these smell delightful,” Lisa said, peering into the basket. 

“Have as much as you like,” Mrs. MacCarthy said. “You, too, Inspector.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Jack said, reaching into the basket to grab a scone and giving Lisa a conspiratorial wink. She smiled, for the first time since Jack had met her, and picked out a scone for herself. 

“I’m heading out to Whitehall now, Miss Belmont,” Jack said. “If you need anything, just call Mr. and Mrs. MacCarthy. You’re safe here, so relax and concentrate on your research.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” Lisa said. 

“Miss Belmont,” Mrs. MacCarthy said, coming over with the teapot. “Would you like a little bit of company? I know sometimes it’s hard to concentrate when you’re by yourself in a new place, and I brought my knitting. I promise to be quiet and not interrupt you.”

“That would be wonderful, Mrs. MacCarthy, thank you,” Lisa said, and she sighed as her shoulders eased down. 

“I’ll leave you ladies to it then,” Jack said, collected his hat and coat and left. 

+++

“I told you, I don’t know anything about the murder of Mr. Loddington,” Nigel said stridently, his clothes disheveled and his hair out of place after spending the night in a cell. Jack and Inspector Drayton had been interviewing him for half an hour now, and were getting nowhere - at least not on in regard to the actual murder. “I went home after work around five-thirty, Harbell served me dinner around six o’clock, I listened to the news on the wireless, read the financial papers, and went to bed around nine. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Did Harbell stay after dinner?”

“He laid out my clothes for the morning and then went home himself.”

“About what time did he leave?”

“I don’t know, six-thirty or seven o’clock maybe? Even with a limp he sneaks around like a ghost sometimes,” Nigel said with a touch of bewilderment. “He said something about taking care of a sick aunt, and I didn’t need him any further so he left.”

“And you don’t know anyone else who would want to hurt Reginald Loddington?” Jack asked. 

“I don’t even know who Mr. Loddington is - was - so how would I know who would want to hurt him?”

“Are you in your office all day, Mr. Bolsover, or do you step out of the building on occasion?” Jack asked, redirecting the questioning to keep Nigel off balance. 

“Of course, I step out of my office and the building. We have meetings in the boardroom, I consult with other financiers, and I often take lunch with friends or clients at various restaurants.”

“So anyone would have access to your file cabinets,” Jack confirmed.

“No, I lock them up whenever I’m not in the room,” Nigel stated. “And I take the keys with me when I leave.”

“Who else has keys?”

“Only my father and my secretary.”

“Are those keys secured with those people?”

“I presume,” Nigel said, the look in his eye changing to wariness. “But you’ll have to ask them. What would my files have to do with the murder of a farmer in County Kent?”

“We’ll ask the questions,” Drayton said. “What do you know about the changes in the Maidstone account?”

“I can’t be responsible for market forces,” Nigel shrugged.

“Who initiated the sell-off of solid British investments in favor of speculative American stocks, causing the severe depletion of Maidstone funds?”

“All those changes were there prior to the account being handed over to me.”

“So are you saying Lord Bolsover made all those changes? It’s common knowledge within the firm and with Baron Fisher’s family that Lord Bolsover was the original financial advisor.”

“You’ll have to ask him what his involvement was,” Nigel said. 

“Why are your initials all over these trades?” Jack asked, showing Nigel the pages of trade confirmations with Nigel’s initials at the bottom.

“These were just regular transactions on existing holdings, not new purchases,” Nigel explained. “We had to keep selling off shares and devaluing the holdings as the prices dropped.”

“Did you receive investment instructions from the client, Baron Henry Fisher?”

“Just a blanket instruction to handle the account in the best interest of the client. I can only do so much with the financial markets being what they are.”

“Here’s that blanket instruction,” Drayton said, pulling out a piece of paper from the folder. “This agreement is dated nineteen-sixteen, when Lord Fisher became the Baron of Richmond. It’s almost fourteen years old and is an agreement between Lord Bolsover and Lord Fisher. Wouldn’t the firm have drafted a new agreement once you took over the account?”

“I suppose we should have, but Father said Lord Fisher was fine with the current status.”

“Tell us about this photograph,” Jack said, switching topics again and taking out the post-match cricket photo he’d collected from Lord Bolsvoer’s office. 

“It’s from a friendly, neighborhood cricket match out at Maidstone. We were playing a team from Canterbury - I can’t recall the baron’s name who sponsored that team - and Baron Eugene Fisher sponsored our team and the loser bought the drinks afterward. We played on the pitch at Maidstone.”

“Who are all the people in the photo? Do you remember them all?” Jack pressed. 

“Well, that’s me,” Nigel pointed to himself. “And Father right next to me, of course. Baron Fisher, Lady Fisher - she died of a heart problem not long after that - a couple fellows I went to Oxford with, uhm…,” Nigel had been pointing to faces as he worked his way through the photo, but stopped when he got to Loddy, skipping over him and the man next to him. Jack caught him swallowing hard and his eyes moving furtively across the image as if looking for an answer. “The rest are other members of Baron Fisher’s family; I don’t remember all their names.” Nigel sat back and gave Jack a haughty look as if he’d won some sort of contest.

“You don’t know who these two are?” Jack asked, pointing to Loddington and the man next to him.

“Like I said, a couple blokes I went to Oxford with came out to the country to fill out our team. I don’t recall all their names now. It’s been over fifteen years since that photo was taken.”

Jack set the photo aside and reached for the framed map of Maidstone, propping it up on the table. “Why would your father, Lord Bolsover, have this framed map of Maidstone land in his office?”

“He told me it was a gift from Baron Eugene Fisher, something about a partnership.”

“What kind of partnership?”

“A financial one, I suppose - client and financier,” Nigel rolled his eyes. 

“This map is signed on the bottom here, by both your father and Eugene Fisher, and dated the same date as the cricket match photo. Do you find that unusual?”

“Why are you asking me these questions you should be asking my father?”

“We’ll get to him eventually, but we’re hoping to get some background from you first,” Drayton commented. “Answer the question.”

“I’ll rephrase,” Jack said. “Do you know if your father and Baron Eugene Fisher were planning some sort of land deal with Maidstone?”

“Land deal? What are you talking about?” Nigel was sincerely shocked.

“So you’re not aware of any deal your father might have had with Eugene Fisher to transfer any or all Maidstone property to your father.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” Nigel declared, still stunned, but Jack could see the gears working behind his eyes. 

“Go on, Nigel, spit it out,” Jack said, sitting back and crossing his legs now that he’d laid the trap. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I’ve been set up,” Nigel said in realization and disbelief. 

“How so?” Jack asked. Nigel didn’t answer right away, his eyes glanced around from the file folders to the map and back to Jack and Drayton. 

“I’m not certain, but I’ve given you all the information I can,” Nigel said, clamming up. If you have any real evidence to hold me further, then let me call my solicitor. Otherwise, I’d like to go.”

“You may leave the station, Mr. Bolsover,” Drayton said, standing up. “But don’t leave town.”

+++


	26. Chapter 26

“Don’t worry, Miss, it will only take a minute,” Gordie said, jumping out of the car and running to the tool box attached to the back. 

“What will only take a minute,” Phryne said, getting out herself. “Gordie, what’s wrong with the car?”

“Just a minor issue with the oil, Miss,” Gordie said, taking out a can of motor oil and a metal funnel. “Just need to add a little bit more.”

“I thought you said this car could make it all the way to London?” Phryne asked, glad that the side of the road was wide enough for the car to stop and firm enough that they weren’t sinking into the mud.

“I did, but I guess I forgot to say that I usually have to add oil about halfway there,” Gordie said sheepishly as he handed Phryne the can so he could open the hood. She went ahead and unscrewed the top for him while he fitted the funnel into the proper reservoir in the engine. 

“I’m sorry, Miss,” Gordie added. “I know this will delay your arrival in London.”

“It’s all right, Gordie. I’ll have plenty of time to get where I need to be.” She expected Nigel would go back to his office after being released from police custody. She knew he prided himself on his position with the firm and since he didn’t have a family at home, she guessed he would take solace in his office. She hoped she was right, since she didn’t know where he lived, and she wanted to catch him while he was still worn down from the interrogation. She pictured Jack grilling him with questions and it made her smile. 

“All set, Miss,” Gordie announced, closing and latching the hood. They got back in the vehicle and Gordie started it up. It sputtered briefly, but then the engine caught and they were off again. Phryne’s injury had started throbbing after about ten minutes on the road - the rumble of engine and tires irritating the tender spot - but she ignored it. She had decided to wear a black cloche hat with a design right over where her head wound was. If her injury started bleeding, it wouldn’t be noticeable right away. She planned to go straight back to the Savoy after her meeting with Nigel, then spend the rest of the evening curled up in Jack’s arms. She sighed as she imagined it, and the thought relaxed her. 

“You know where Threadneedle Street is, don’t you, Gordie?” Phryne asked as they got closer to the city. 

“Yes, Miss,” he said. “What number?”

“Sixty.”

“And you’re sure you won’t need a ride after?”

“No need,” she said. “I’ll catch a cab.”

+++

“All right, let’s go,” Drayton said to Jack and they grabbed their topcoats and hats. A constable had just arrived with the warrant for House of Garrard, and Drayton wanted to serve it himself. “Let’s just hope there are no snipers on the roof this time,” he said wryly, giving Jack a look. 

“Wouldn’t want Scotland Yard to run low on detectives and have to borrow more from Australia,” Jack volleyed back, earning a bark of laughter from his new counterpart. The service of the warrant went smoothly and without incident. Marcus had the client folder and a signed statement from his silversmith ready when the detectives arrived, including a description of the man the silversmith remembered. 

Jack looked at the client's name and furrowed his brow: Nigel Bolsover. But the description certainly didn’t match. Someone was definitely setting up Nigel, and Jack was beginning to see the threads of the case knit together into whole cloth. There were still some rough edges, and more evidence was needed, but they were certainly headed in the right direction. 

From there, Drayton wanted to visit Chauncey in the hospital, go over the developments in the case with him, and see if he had any further insights. Jack wasn’t sure that was the best use of their time, but he kept his counsel and went along. At least he would be able to give Phryne an update on her friend’s condition.

+++

“You know what, Gordie?” Phryne said as they approached London. “Take me by the Savoy first. I want to check in with the MacCarthy’s first, see if they have any news.”

“Sure thing, Miss,” Gordie said and veered left at the next fork and headed toward the swanky hotel. 

“Miss Fisher!” Mrs. MacCarthy greeted her when she entered her suite, Gordie in tow carrying her suitcase. “The Inspector told us you’d been injured, are you all right?”

“I’m fine enough, Mrs. M. Do you know where Jack is?”

“I haven’t seen him since this morning, so I’m sure he’s off trying to solve the case.” Mrs. MacCarthy greeted Gordie and handed him a tin of cookies, which he eagerly dove into.

“Will you do me a favor then?” Phryne asked, sitting down at the table and taking off her hat. “Will you inspect my bandage and replace it if it needs to be? I have the poultice right here,” she dug in her bag. 

“Oh, Miss!” Mrs. MacCarthy cried when she saw the large bandage on Phryne’s head. “Whatever happened?”

“Took a cricket bat to the head. Eight stitches.”

“Oh, my dear, you should be resting.”

“I can’t,” Phryne said. “Something’s bothering me about this case and I need to figure it out or it’s going to make me crazy.”

“Well, let me look at your stitches, then.” Mrs. MacCarthy had long since given up on deterring Phryne from the more dangerous of her crime-solving ways, but giving a bit of lip service to Phryne’s safety was part of their relationship. She peeled the bandage back carefully and tapped lightly on the area that was stitched. “It’s drying up nicely, and no angry red skin, so it’s not getting infected, thank goodness.” She reached for the poultice and rebandaged the area, and Phryne put her hat back on. 

“Thank you, Mrs. M.,” Phryne said, getting up and pouring herself a swig of whiskey to take the edge off. 

“Miss Fisher,” Mr. MacCarthy came out of the other bedroom. “I thought I heard voices. Are you all right?”

“I’m perfectly fine for now,” Phryne repeated. “Just stopping in before I go over to the Bolsover’s office again. There’s something we’re missing and it’s bothering me.”

“Well, maybe this will help,” Mr. MacCarthy said, sitting down and waving his hand for Phryne to join him. “When we were going through all those notes in the valise, we ran across a map of Maidstone. I forgot about it once we started talking about the financial matters, but I was going to show it to you then.”

“A map?” 

“Yes, and there were lines drawn on it with red pencil, showing what looked like roads and buildings all over the open estate area behind the house. Same with the estate grounds in front of the house, too. One side had the initials “R.E.G.B.” and the other had “E.W.F.” written on it. Do you know what that might mean?”

“EWF could be my father’s cousin Eugene William Fisher. I don’t know Lord Bolsover’s initials, but I know his first name is Robert.”

“Do you have the valise with you?”

“I do,” Phryne brightened as she remembered. “Gordie, bring the case here.” They dug through the valise and found the folded map tied up in a bundle in the bottom of the piles, and opened it up on the table. 

“Well, they weren’t shy about what they wanted to do with the family land,” Phryne smirked. “This is dated 1913, before the war. I suppose Eugene being lost at sea interrupted those plans, at least for a while anyway. Looks like Lord Bolsover is trying again, but using Nigel as a front for his scheme.”

“Miss, are you in danger?” Mrs. MacCarthy asked.

“Probably,” she shrugged and stood up to go.

“Then you probably shouldn’t go to that Nigel fellow’s office today.”

“I’ll be fine,” she asserted. “I have my gun in my purse.”

“Did you want to take this map with you?”

“No, I don’t want to lose the evidence. Lock all of that up safely. If Jack comes back, show it to him and tell him where I’ve gone. If I’m not back by supper, call the police.”

++++

“Inspector Drayton!” Jack and Drayton turned to see a younger man in a suit carrying some files and hustling toward them as they headed down the hall toward Inspector Howard’s office. “Inspector Drayton, I found something!” the man panted.

“Calm down, Browning,” Drayton said, not slowing a step. “Follow us back to the office.” The three of them went to Inspector Howard’s office and Drayton shut the door.

“Browning, this is Detective Inspector Jack Robinson; he’s been working on this case from the beginning. Jack, this Detective Ernest Browning. He’s an accountant by trade, but we’ve got him and a couple other blokes working on cases with money or other financial corruption. We gave Browning the files from the Bolsover firm. What’d you find, Browning?”

“Maidstone is not in financial ruin.”

“What?” both Drayton and Jack said at the same time.

“The files from Nigel Bolsover’s office do show the steep decline in the Maidstone holdings and values,” Browning continued. “BUT, there was a file in Lord Bolsover’s office that has entirely different information. None of the original holdings were sold off, and those investments have only dipped in value by a few percentage points each. We verified the pricing with the stock market, and we called the companies listed in the account and all of them verified that Maidstone is still a large investor.”

“So they doctored the file to make it look like it was failing,” Drayton said. “But why?

“Maybe it has something to do with that map of Maidstone we found in Lord Bolsover’s office,” Jack said. “If the value of the property had dropped precipitously, then someone could come in and buy it for a song. That someone most likely being Lord Bolsover himself.”

“And then he would have cheated the Fisher’s out of their land by offering to take a supposedly bad investment off their hands,” Drayton added. “Still don’t know the ultimate motive here, though.”

“Well, if he waited out the downturn in the market, he could easily sell off portions of it for housing developments and other things,” Browning interjected.

“Bingo,” Drayton said and Jack nodded. 

“Now we just have to prove it,” Jack asked. 

“We need more evidence,” Drayton said. “We need to find something solid that proves Lord Bolsover was trying to acquire Maidstone and resell the land for a significant profit.”

“I guess I’ll have some more digging into the files to do,” Browning said, smiling.

“Better you than me,” Drayton joked. “Good luck and keep me posted.”

“Yes, sir,” Browning said and hustled out. 

“And we have to tie the Baron to Loddington’s murder,” Jack said after Browning left. “If he’s willing to put his own son in the frame for this scheme, then he’s capable of carefully covering his tracks. This won’t be easy.”

“No, but it’ll be quite satisfying clapping the Baron’s arse in irons,” Drayton replied. 

“His statement is as boring as plain oatmeal,” Jack grimaced, flipping through the transcribed pages. “When do we get to interview him properly?”

“This afternoon, actually,” Drayton said. “He offered to come in voluntarily at four o’clock after he finished with some important appointments. We’ll still be sending a couple of constables to escort him, though,” he added with a smirk.

“Then we have about thirty minutes to prepare.” Jack leaned back in the chair with several file folders and settled in to read.

+++

“He’s not taking any appointments this afternoon, Miss Fisher,” said Nigel’s secretary, Miss Whitaker, when Phryne approached her desk. 

“Oh, I’m not here on business,” Phryne said. “I heard Nigel had a rather difficult day and I wanted to check in on him as a friend.”

“Well, then you’d be the first,” Miss Whitaker said. “Go on in if you must, but he’s not in much of a fit state for visitors.”

Phryne thanked her and quietly entered the office. “Nigel?” she asked, shutting the door behind her.

“Who is it?” Nigel groused without looking up. Phryne found him leaned back in a wing chair near the fireplace, eyes closed, an empty glass in his hand. “Miss Whitaker, I told you to leave me alone,” he barked. 

“Nigel, it’s Phryne,” she said, peering across the unlit room that was growing darker as the sun set. “Would you like me to turn on a light?”

“No! No lights,” Nigel said, lifting his head and squinting at her. Phryne turned on a nearby table lamp anyway. “Phryne, what are you doing here? Gloating?”

“No, I -” she stopped herself, suddenly concerned about Nigel’s inebriated state. “Nigel, how much have you had to drink?”

“Oh, gallons, my dear,” he slurred and rolled his eyes in contempt at her concern. 

“Not very much, sir,” said Harbell, shuffling into the room and turning on a table lamp. “Just two small glasses so far. Can I get you a drink, Miss?” he asked, then refilled Nigel’s glass.

“No, thank you, Harbell,” Phryne said. “I won’t be here very long.” She took a wooden chair from across the room and set it in front of Nigel so she could face him, and hung her purse on the back of the chair. 

“You see, Phryne, I’m not drunk, I’m depressed,” Nigel said in a conspiratorial tone. “Possibly even suicidal.” There was a glimmer in his eye that was more mania than mirth, and Phryne wondered if it was from the interrogation or something else.

“Nigel, there’s no need for that,” she stated calmly. “Tell me what’s going on and maybe I can help.”

“Where should I start?” Nigel smirked. “Being put in the frame by my own father for a murder I didn’t commit? Or being jailed for loving a man instead of a woman?”

“Those are pretty difficult circumstances,” Phryne agreed, deciding that non-committal responses would encourage him to keep talking. 

“I knew something wasn’t right when Loddy was killed,” Nigel said, taking a large sip of his drink. “But father told me to play dumb and do what I was told, and soon our family land holdings would be increased and we’d come out of the financial crisis even better than before.”

“Is this because I turned down your offer of marriage - several times over the years as I recall? Your father still has his eye on Maidstone?”

“This has been going on long before you were around, Phryne. My father and your uncle Eugene had been planning this for years, until the war ruined everything. This world financial crisis offered the perfect cover for a ruined estate to be scooped up by a benevolent investor. All my father needed was a human shield to hide his scheme - me.”

The gears were spinning in Phryne’s mind as the puzzle pieces started to click into place. “Nigel, who killed Loddy?”

“I. Don’t. Know,” Nigel said, enunciating each word and punctuating them with a pointing motion at Phryne. 

“What about who hit me with a cricket bat in the basement of Maidstone house the other day,” Phryne said, taking off her hat to show her bandage. “Or who shot at Inspectors Howard and Robinson yesterday?” 

“I’m truly sorry you were hurt, but I haven’t left London in weeks, much less gone to County Kent, and I was already on the way to my overnight accommodations at Whitehall yesterday when the shooting was going on,” Nigel explained.

“Well, I know YOU didn’t do any of it, Nigel,” Phryne sat back and crossed her arms. “Your constitution is far too feeble.”

“And you’re always so delightfully direct,” he sneered. 

“Nigel,” Phryne began, then stopped when Harbell shuffled in with a wheeled food tray, setting it between her and Nigel. 

“Forgive my manners; would you like some dinner, Phryne?” Nigel asked. “I’m sure Harbell can prepare another plate.”

“No, that’s quite all right,” she said as Harbell collected the domed covers from the plates and turned to go. He caught his toe on Phryne’s chair and fell, knocking her purse to the floor with him. The silver plate covers made an enormous racket as they scattered across the hardwood floor.

“Harbell!” Phryne and Nigel said in unison. Phryne jumped up quickly and knelt to check on the valet, who was groaning and trying to get up. “Nigel, help me,” Phryne said as Nigel came around to the spot, though a little slower than Phryne. 

“Come on, man,” Nigel said, lifting Harbell under his arms while Phryne turned to collect the plate covers. Once on his feet, Harbell wobbled slightly, but steadied himself on the chair. 

“Oh, Miss, here’s your purse,” he said, handing Phryne her bag that he’d been clutching since he’d gone down. 

“Thank you, now let’s get you to a chair so you can catch your breath,” she said. 

“No, thank you, Miss, but I’m fine,” Harbell assured her.

“Are you sure?” Phryne eyed him. “You took a hard fall.” 

“Seriously, Harbell,” Nigel said with a measure of concern. “Have a seat.” He placed his hands on Harbell’s upper arms to guide him to a seat and Phryne heard the valet take a sharp breath, as if wincing in pain. 

“Take your hands off me, sir,” Harbell hissed through clenched teeth, and Nigel complied. “I’m sorry for my impudence, sir,” Harbell immediately added, bowing his head in contrition. “It’s my job to serve you, not the other way around.”

“In that case, Harbell,” Nigel said, “you can serve me by going home and lying down. I’ll be there later after I eat and finish my conversation with Miss Fisher.”

“But sir, who will clean up?” Harbell asked.

“I can certainly wheel a cart back to the pantry and you can finish the rest tomorrow,” Nigel offered. “Now, go home.”

“Yes, sir,” Harbell said. “I’ll just get my coat and hat.” He shuffled to the pantry and back, taking several minutes. “Are you sure you won’t be needing me further, sir?” 

“No, Harbell, I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

“Good night then, sir, Miss Fisher.” Harbell said and shuffled out the office door.

“Are you sure he’s fit for service?” Phryne asked.

“He’s too proud to admit when he needs help,” Nigel said. “I have to order him to take care of himself.”

“I can see that you two care for each other, regardless of how cantankerous your relationship may seem,” she offered.

“He’s very good at what he does, and he’s an excellent cook,” Nigel said, taking a bite of a sandwich that had a good bit of leafy greens on it. “Mmm, take this sandwich here. The things that man can do with ham and cheese are scrumptious,” he continued while chewing. “Said he learned how to cook in the Army and used to keep the field kitchens free of scavenging beasts with his marksmanship skills. Could take out a rat in one shot from a hundred yards, but he was injured just a couple weeks before Armistice day. Now he has too much nerve damage to be able to fire a weapon any more. Shame.”

Phryne took in all the information that Nigel was sharing and several more pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “Nigel,” she said quietly and the apprehension in her voice made him stop chewing and look up. “I was going to say this earlier, before Harbell fell down, but now I really mean it: You’re in danger and you probably shouldn’t go home tonight.”

“What do you mean, Phryne?”

“You know what your father is planning - he’s already had Loddington killed to protect his plan, had me attacked, shot at the detectives. He’s framed you for Loddington’s murder - willing to see his own son hanged in order to increase his own wealth. Do you think he’d wait for the Crown to hang you now that you’ve seen the light?”

“You’re overwrought, Phryne, just like a woman,” Nigel scoffed defensively, not looking at her. “Must be that head injury.”

“Nigel, come back to the Savoy with me tonight,” she said.

“Oh, now that my life may be in danger, now you want me,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Or you could accept my offer of marriage, combine our resources and fight off my father.”

“Not likely,” Phryne sniffed. “Besides, what would poor Philomena do?” Nigel made a scoffing noise and took another bite of his sandwich. “Look, I’ll pay for you to have your own room at the Savoy until the police solve this murder, safe from your father or whoever it is that’s trying to kill all these people.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Phryne, but my father isn’t going to kill me,” Nigel sighed. “Disgrace me, have me kicked out of the firm and out of London society, certainly, but he enjoys playing with his toys too much to have me killed.” He polished off the last bite of his sandwich and wiped his mouth, then his forehead. “Is it warm in here?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Do you feel alright, Nigel?”

“Probably just tired still from sleeping in a jail cell overnight,” he replied with a wry grin. “Scotland Yard hospitality doesn’t quite reach the standards of the Savoy.”

The clock chimed five, and Phryne realized that Nigel’s ability to provide valuable information was decreasing sharply. She stood to go. “Take care of yourself, Nigel,” she said. “Just because you’re not one of my favorite people doesn’t mean I want to see you dead.”

“That’s high praise coming from you,” Nigel said with a small chuckle. “I may just include you in my will for that.”

A shiver of foreboding ran down Phryne’s spine when he said it, but she shook it off, said her good nights and left. 

++++


End file.
